


Discretion

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Missing Scene, Relationship of Convenience, Romance, Slice of Life, Translation Available, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3011597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Finch and Reese are forced into hiding, Professor Whistler and Detective Riley try to make a life together.<br/>An AU Canon Divergent imagining of the events between Season 3 and Season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation by [papesse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/papesse/pseuds/papesse) available here: <http://www.mtslash.net/thread-213187-1-1.html>-Thank you!  
>   
> A heartfelt thank you to [@merionees on tumblr](http://merionees.tumblr.com/post/154372942332/waiting-pensmarkers-sketch-inspired-by-a-scene) for their gorgeous fan art, a pens&markers sketch called "Waiting". See it when you get to chapter four, then visit their tumblr for even more beautiful Reese/Finch art.
> 
> Do you create, listen to, or just plain ol' enjoy POI podfic? [ if so, I invite you to check out a couple of new POI Podfic projects taking place right now.](http://superjinkyo.tumblr.com/post/167036960743/calling-all-poi-podfic-fans)

_The Library isn't safe anymore, Harold. Get out._

John grabbed his bag. Harold erased. Firmware and file systems halted, secured, and destroyed. The new game was called survival and the score was firmly Samaritan: 1, Everything Harold Held Dear, Sacred, and Necessary: 0.

He followed John down the dark stairway and out the library's street level exit. After staying awake through Grace's exchange and Greer's imprisonment, the trial, the explosion, and gunshot, Harold's eyes burned gritty and hot as they hit daylight. His shoulder throbbed. He clutched to Bear's leash as the dog dragged him forward, away from the Library.

A squad car sounded a burst of siren, flashing its blue and red lights over the sidewalk. John stopped, his duffel bag banging against his thigh. Harold froze in his tracks. The police car gave one more burst before passing through the intersection ahead.

John scanned the foot traffic around them then leaned down and pitched his voice low against Harold's ear, cutting through the pound of his pulse. "Keep yourself alive. I'll find you."

Harold watched as John rounded his shoulders and turned on his heel to disappear into the cover and rush of a city that had no idea of what was to come.

Sharp needles of fear cascaded over Harold's skin. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

He stood on the sidewalk until the shock and morphine wore off and he woke to the cold press of passing pedestrians. John was gone. At his side, Bear heeled uneasily. The dog gave a low whine and pressed his body close.

He hailed a cab. He fished the clutch of cash and ID out of his pocket and directed the driver to the address listed on his new driver's license. Harold watched as, in the opposing lane, more police cars made their way through the snarled traffic. The Library was, no doubt, compromised by now.

As he turned away from the window and leaned back in the seat, Harold accepted that he'd allowed himself to become too attached. The operating environment could be rebuilt. The books could be replaced. Nathan's Library could...

The panic attack was more subtle this time. It was Nathan, gone. Grace, his ring on her finger and her fingers clawing through the acrid pile of river soaked recovered belongings. It was John walking away from the mission.

It was a slow drive across Manhattan and over the bridge to a three flight walk-up and the start of a new life.

The apartment was dusty and disused but serviceable, as if the Machine had kept this bolt-hole in waiting. He secured the chain / key / deadbolt / latch collection lining the front door.

He hung his hat. He hung his coat. He watched as Bear cautiously sniffed the perimeter. He wanted his old life back.

This apartment, was sparsely appointed. From the front door he could take in the small, divided space of living room and galley kitchen. He started there.

The refrigerator was clean, but empty. Wedged next to it was the sink, and then an electric range butted up against the meager counter space. A narrow, two door cabinet was mounted above. Someone had recently stocked the shelves with dry goods. On the other side, a half dozen cans of dog food, two heavy plastic bowls, and a human dishware set for one.

He got Bear settled first before shuffling back through the tiny living room. He would need dinner for himself eventually but immediately, he needed to not think. The living room led to a short hallway, bath on one side, a dark bedroom on the other. He left the door open and crossed over to sit on the sagging mattress.

The door locks wouldn't keep out a determined Decima agent. If he got a bit of advance warning: the pounding of feet on the stairs, the familiar scrabble of a pick set in the locks, with enough time he might be able to use the straight-through layout to his advantage. Possibly make it out of the cramped kitchen, through the living room and back to the single bedroom. Out to the fire escape and then... do what?

He had to assume Root and Miss Shaw both made it to safe cover. He knew John would be okay. He toed out of his shoes and lay down on the rough blanket. He was confident that he'd cleared all traces of the Machine. It was completely free now. Harold hoped that it could protect itself against Samaritan.

He fell asleep reliving each of his life decisions that had led him to this strange bed. When the police did not come crashing through the door in the night, he carried over his expectations to the next day and the day after that.

For the next three days Harold's world narrowed to draining, cleaning and treating his gunshot wound in the shabby little apartment, and the patch of brown grass across the street that passed for a park. When the antibiotics and canned goods ran out, he was forced to venture into the new world.

Dressed in a shapeless pullover and drab khakis from his new wardrobe, he and Bear went out and began mapping the landmarks. Cameras kept watch above every sidewalk and doorway of the quiet, blue-collar neighborhood, but the threats Harold imagined lurking around each corner never materialized.

The first destination on Harold's list was the free clinic five blocks away. The intake nurse gave a skeptical glance down to Bear. "He's my service dog," Harold said quickly - a not exactly false statement. With a short nod the nurse relented and waved him forward to the desk.

Harold went pliant. He slipped into his role, building his new identity as he answered her questions. Finally, she handed him a clipboard and pointed him towards the hard plastic chairs where he was to fill out his patient information forms and wait.

Faded public health posters hung on the waiting room walls. The magazines were old. Bear stretched himself over Harold's feet and they waited. Two hours later, the doctor was ready to see him.

"Tell me, Mr.," the young doctor glanced down at the paperwork, "Whistler, what brings you here today?"

"Well, it's a little bit embarrassing actually," Harold stammered. "For the last few days I've... well... it burns when I... when I urinate. And there's pain here and here," he spit out, his eyes focused just over the doctor's shoulder while he pointed to his flank and lower abdomen before launching into a detailed description of quantity, leakage, smells, and color from memory.

"Ah," the doctor nodded, jotting down notes. Soon enough he laid the chart aside and reached for his prescription pad. "The bad news is that it sounds like a urinary tract infection. The good news is that we can clear that up with a course of broad spectrum antibiotics."

"Really?"

The doctor smiled reassuringly and scratched out the prescription. "I do want you to get a full work up to rule out any prostate and immune system problems."

"Oh, of course," Harold said, plucking the prescription from the doctor's hand.

Satisfied that he'd forestalled death by infection, he and his service dog took the long way back. They stopped at the pharmacy first for the cefazolin, a flash drive, and more gauze. They followed that up with a trip to the corner grocery store.

Harold's stomach lurched at the idea of another dinner of fried SPAM and rice but the apartment had not come equipped with a microwave. Food meant his best, rusty efforts over the stove. Dried pasta, canned soup, an onion, a head of iceberg lettuce and two loose carrots, a bag of frozen chicken legs and thighs, a small jar of garlic powder, a loaf of rye bread and a packet of sliced ham.

Dinner was a veritable feast. Afterward, he took Bear out to the patch of brown grass across the street. He drained, cleaned, and dressed his wound, squeamishness long since gone, then he slept.

The next day he and Bear cut through the dirt park to continue their exploration. They found a dusty little bookstore, and next to it a dry cleaners. Beyond that was a cell phone store and a pay day loan and check cashers. At the end of the corner was a storefront pet shop stocked with lizards and snakes and an owner willing to special order in and deliver the Bear's expensive high performance food.

Bit by bit he rebuilt his life and in the process realized the crushing loneliness of it. He was, by nature, a really private person, but he'd never been a hermit. He missed the relative freedom of his time with John. He even mused nostalgic on Shaw, Detective Fusco and Root. His apartment was too quiet. He didn't dwell on the thought for long, but he missed the Machine too.

Harold ached for information. The scant coverage of the post office explosion had dried up. The newspaper headlines now promoted conspiracy and nationalistic pride. Collier and Vigilance played patsy to textbook perfection.

Harold Whistler could scarcely afford special order dog food. His small cache of money was slowly and surely dwindling. There was next month's rent, due on the first – late after the third, said the building super after he'd come up to meet his new tenant. He had stockpiles stashed all over the city, resources that had been effectively cut off when Samaritan made him a fugitive.

Harold had spent much of his life as a fugitive. His old instincts were kicking in. He had been cut off from the flock and was in no position to fly. To survive, he needed to blend in. To escape, he'd need to rebuild his resources. Ten blocks from the apartment he discovered a neighborhood pawn shop that accepted cash and asked no questions. He walked out with a laptop, parts, tools, and the beginnings of a plan.

Back in the security of the apartment, he set the computer aside for the moment and let Bear off leash. "We'll find a bigger park tomorrow, promise," Harold said, scratching behind Bear's ear. "Are you ready to eat?"

Bear's ears shot up and Harold smiled and turned for the kitchen. So far, they'd explored the northern range of the neighborhood. Tomorrow, they'd start in the other direction.

"I know you don't like it, but we all have to make sacrifices," Harold said as he pulled a can of wet dog food from the pantry and a can of soup for himself. "Your food should be here soon. Won't that be delicious?"

Bear's tail beat against the air as Harold emptied the food into his bowl.

"I may treat myself too," Harold said, setting the bowl down. "There's a little diner down past the bodega. We should investigate, or examine the menu at the least."

Bear didn't answer. Bear never answered and the apartment was still too quiet. The quiet recalled too vividly the way he'd felt about the Library a few months back when John left. The Machine had interceded that time and brought John back to him.

Harold opened his soup and put it on to heat. He set another small saucepan of water on to boil and made himself a ham sandwich while he waited. Leaned against the narrow kitchen counter, he and Bear enjoyed dinner.

After he rinsed the dishes and refreshed his tea, Harold and Bear retired to the living room and the newly acquired laptop. He settled on the couch while Bear dropped down on his hind legs and sat at his feet, ears twitching as the laptop chimed out its startup sound.

It was a standard issue machine, with some modifications it would be serviceable. Hitching a connection on an unsecured wi-fi signal, he connected. He downloaded a Linux package and the related applications he'd need in order to rebuild his working environment. Three cups of tea later, Bear was asleep and Harold had wiped the laptop's original OS and was making swift progress on recreating his own from his IFT code. Securing the box might take another day or two, but Harold had the time and the work would be a good distraction from the quiet.

He coded from rote. Somewhere John was out there, and Harold hoped, as well distracted. His parting words had been a promise that, if he could keep himself alive, John would find him. It was a promise that John had fulfilled many times over already.

The panic attacks had subsided in the past week and he could think about John with a clear head now. To keep his partner and team safe he had to leave them behind. He didn't want John to find him. This new world was too precarious. Harold, and the Machine he'd built, were too dangerous and it was only a matter of time before Samaritan sniffed them both out.

He glanced down at the equipment spread out over the couch and coffee table. Even this was a futile operation. What use was information without the means to act on it? He had no assets, no money, no resources. His ties to the Numbers had been severed. The mission was dead. But somewhere, John was still alive. Grace was still alive. Shaw, Root, and Detective Fusco were all still alive he had to believe.

He had to know.

Harold worked through the night with Bear asleep on the floor. At sunrise he broke for a shower and change of clothes before he and Bear embarked on the promised day of exploring. In the hyper-reality of sleep deprivation, the other side of the neighborhood took on a surreal aspect. Tidy brownstones lined the street. The retail was higher end down here. A wine and cheese shop sat next to a florist. Further down was the diner he'd spotted earlier. The neon sign was dimmed in the daylight but the restaurant was already filled with early morning commuters en route to work. Harold stepped inside for a moment to pick up a take-out menu.

There were more security cameras on this end of the street. City mounted units overhead, private security models gracing the storefronts and building entrances. None of the people jostling past him on the sidewalk seemed to notice.

Bear certainly didn't notice because they'd finally come up to the park. Harold smiled as he led Bear towards the dog run. He wasn't alone.

He took a nap once they returned to the apartment. He had made good progress on the computer last night and was close to taking it online. A few hours later, after a fresh cup of tea and the left over soup from yesterday, Harold got back to work.

For the time being he would have to use the unsecured wi-fi. By routing the connection through his newly built proxy he could spoof the address and anonymize his activity. The laptop was not as powerful as his usual set-up but with a few modifications he was able to access the doll camera on Fusco's desk. The detective was not there but there was every evidence that he had been recently and would be again.

He dredged the next I.P. address from memory. A new webcam window opened onto a wide, bricked plaza. At its center was a carved fountain, thick with fat pigeons and surrounded by tourists. Harold expanded the window and leaned close to the screen. Grace Ellsworth's apartment was just on the edge of the plaza. The chances that she would be out with her easel and paints were astronomically small, but still he searched the camera frame, hunting for a familiar flash of red hair. After scanning the moving scene thoroughly, he gave up. He would try again later.

Harold placed a mental checkmark in front of Fusco's name. He had spent some time thinking about how he could track down John, Shaw, or Root. He didn't have the means to tap into the NYPD Domain Awareness system yet. He was fairly sure the Machine had resettled them all in the city. If the goal was to keep them alive in these above ground identities, that would be best accomplished by letting them live out their lives in a familiar location.

An advantage he hadn't allowed Grace.

Harold's fingers rested over the keyboard. To keep her safe he'd sent her away. He's let Harold Martin die and left her alone. His hand trembled as he deleted his connection to the Italian camera. Leaving her alone hadn't been enough. Samaritan found her anyway. Greer had her. Greer had also had him until John saved him.

As with Grace, Harold had allowed himself to become too attached to John. While he couldn't imagine a scenario where he could be with Grace again, not after the things he'd done, Harold had imagined a life with John. For all the complexities of their working relationship, Harold considered John a friend. On occasion he'd considered more but he recognized those thoughts for what they were. Anything deeper than friendship between John and himself was fantasy.

Harold pushed away the unproductive line of thought and turned back to the laptop. He typed in a few lines and was soon prodding the dark web for information. By now Samaritan was firmly entrenched and no one had noticed and there was nothing Harold could do to stop it. For the time being his best defense was to blend in, to become Harold Whistler.

The Machine had set up a plausible cover: a mathematics professor with research experience in economics. Beyond a few faculty listings, Whistler's digital footprint was non-existent. For however long Root's hardware hack held, Harold was reasonably certain he could pull the identity off.

A few days later, Harold Whistler's accreditation papers arrived in the mail. There was no return address on the shipping box. Inside, along with the accreditation, were copies of Whistler's diplomas and a separate sealed envelope containing an invitation to teach.

Harold studied the documents closely. The college was twenty minutes away by train. A job would lend credence to his cover and he could use the money. He could also use the change in scenery. The next morning, he left Bear behind for the day to brave the subways in search of a suit.

 

He had made many concessions for the sake of survival: giving up John, Sameen, Root, and the Library to start. But, when Monday morning came, as he stood in front of the mirrored closet door inspecting himself in the dull, off-the-rack brown suit, he was especially piqued by the loss of his wardrobe. There was nothing for it, of course. The important thing was that his friends were safe. Assuming that they all kept their heads down and stayed off of Samaritan's radar, they just might stay alive. And, if they all stayed alive, there was always the slim chance they might reunite someday.

That would be nice.

Nicer than this thoroughly unremarkable two-piece atrocity. His thumb lingered at the dimpled base of the four-in-hand knot. The polyblend tie was a disaster. He readjusted the lapels of his jacket and sighed. The tie was still askew. Cheap fabric would never lay right. He gave up tugging and turned away to collect his satchel.

"Bear, hier," he called and the dog bounded from his spot in front of the couch. "I would say you're more excited about the first day of school than I am," Harold mused as he locked the apartment behind him.

Whatever excitement Harold had was gone by the end of the day when he and Bear disembarked from the subway for the walk back to the apartment. Professor Harold Whistler and his service dog had spent the day shuttling across campus from one office to another. He completed his tax withholding documents and insurance forms, sat through his orientation seminar, signed off on the university's code of ethics forms, toured the campus, and finally, was assigned an office of his own. Playing the long suffering IFT underling, hiding in plain sight, was nowhere near as exhausting as navigating the beadledom of academia.

Tonight, he thought as he and Bear ascended from the subway station, it would be worth the extra effort of take out from the diner, and a stop for something stronger than tea. He rebalanced his satchel and guided Bear past the apartment towards the other side of the neighborhood. 

He was still replaying the events of the day when the dog came to a sudden stop and turned. "Oh, come on, Bear, you just went! What?"

"Nice dog," called a familiar voice coming up from behind him. "Belgian Malinois?"

Harold stiffened. A low groan escaped his throat. Bear pulled the leash tight, forcing Harold to turn and face the owner of the voice. Beside him, Bear whined loudly until the tall man crouched down to his level and gave the dog unrestricted leave to greet him.

"Bear, liggen!" Harold commanded, checking Bear with a quick, firm pull on the leash. "I'm sorry, he's usually not quite so excitable."

"That's okay," the man said as he stood, brushing his pants clean. "I used to have a dog myself."


	2. Chapter 2

Harold was rooted to the spot, blinking in disbelief. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing a good lint roller can't fix," the man said, extending his open hand. "John Riley, by the way. And you?"

Harold closed his mouth. How had John found him? He glanced down at John's open palm then back to his face. This couldn't be happening and yet it was. The voice, the build, the face, his hopes and mind weren't playing tricks. John had kept his impossible promise. With familiar ease, he handed off Bear's leash.

"Keep walking," Harold said and in full view of the omnipresent cameras, he fell into step beside John. Their circumstances were crystal clear, Harold thought, so why had John endangered himself by tracking him down?

John guided them down the sidewalk, disregarding Harold's silence. "It's a good area, nice and quiet," he said, pausing for a moment to let Bear investigate the fire hydrant. "Close to the subway. Lots of services, lots of places to hide, if you ever needed to."

"John, we can't do this," Harold said at last as they approached the row of tidy brownstones down the street from the large park. "We have people who depend on us."

John slowed his steps and came to a stop. "I know. Transferred in last week," he said, drawing back his coat to reveal the polished badge clipped to his waistband.  "Just got settled in. This is me," he said as he gestured to the elegant building behind them. He ran his hand over Bear's head but kept his eyes on Harold. "Maybe I'll see you two around?"

Harold dropped his head. "I think not, Detective. I don't think that's a good idea."

"No?"

"No. It would be best if we kept our distance."

"Why?" 

"John, don't..."

"Harold," John began, taking a step forward. "I told you I would find you. I didn't expect it to be this easy," he added with an uncertain smile, "but I found you. Why are you in this neighborhood? Are you set up nearby?"

"The covers, John. These are the only things keeping us alive right now. We can't endanger them."

"Do you live nearby? What's your name?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." John raked his eyes over him and brought a hand to Harold's shoulder. "You?"

"I'm fine," Harold said softly, relishing the warmth of John's touch. "We can't talk here."

"I know," John said, his bare fingers brushing over Harold's coat. "Will you come inside?"

"No."

"Where are you staying?"

"That's unimportant. We can't be seen together like this, John."

"Not like this, no," John said softly, taking another step closer. "But we've both been on the run for weeks. Hiding in plain sight. If Greer—"

"John!"

John angled his head, his jaw tense. He pulled his hand away and nodded slowly. "It doesn't have to be like this," he said as he passed Bear's leash back.

"It does. The other side has... a vested interest in our demise. I would prefer it if you and our companions survived."

"And you?" John rasped.

Harold allowed himself a touch, a short squeeze over John's arm. "Take care, Detective. Stay safe," he said then tightened his hold on the leash and led Bear away. He kept his head down, he couldn't look back.

Later, as he treated and cleaned the gunshot wound, Harold could still feel the warm imprint of John's touch.

 

The next time he saw Detective John Riley was a week later in the coffee aisle at the corner grocery. He had spent another long day on campus attending the Safety and Campus Security seminar for new staff members and he was looking forward to an easy dinner and a night of reading the alternate news message boards. It was a relief, in a way he wasn't ready to name yet, when he spotted John skulking behind the saltine cracker display. 

"Spaghetti?" John asked as he appeared at Harold's side, casually rifling through Harold's basket. "Stewed tomatoes, garlic powder." John dropped the sad plastic jar back into the basket and continued walking with Harold. "Only thing you're missing is a can of Cheez Whiz to top it all off with."

"The culinary arts aren't really my strong suit," Harold muttered as he pulled a crumpled box of green tea off the shelf. "Still, dinner will be edible, no processed cheese spread required."

"Where's your dog?"

Harold glanced down the aisle before answering. "At home."

John leaned against the shelves and plucked the tea out of the basket, frowning at the damaged box. "Where is that?"

"The same place where I live." Harold snapped as he took the box from John. "And I should get back before he gets anxious."

"So, nearby? Because you're shopping here," John said, leaning in to pull a bottle of electrolyte water from the top shelf and drop it in Harold's basket. "You know, with just a few ingredients you could make that spaghetti more than edible."

"You don't say?"

John pushed off the shelves to follow Harold's retreat, pulling alongside him in a few strides and crowding the smaller man in the cramped aisle. "Why don't you let me cook you dinner? I've got the night off.  I'd like to see your dog again. And you too." He dipped his head forward, close enough that Harold felt the brush of his lashes against his temple. "What's your name?"

Harold stopped short in front of a display of juice boxes, clutching his grocery basket to his chest. He shot a look at the security camera mounted over the fresh meat display, then turned on the persistent Detective Riley. "Have you gone mad! We can't meet like this. It isn't safe!"

Unperturbed, John lifted his eyes to the camera too and then back to Harold's face. He took a step forward. Harold took a step back and found himself trapped between John and the Capri Sun. 

"The covers are good, Harold. We both survived meeting out in the open, on the sidewalk, and I've been following you around this store for nearly twenty minutes now. We're still alive." John's nose was warm against Harold's neck for a moment as he leaned in over the basket. "You know where my building is. Name's on the intercom panel," he said as he straightened and broke the close contact. "Have dinner with me tonight?"

"No."

"Yes."

"John, no."

"Yes. Just say yes, Harold," John said. A forced smile creasing his gaunt face. "I try to avoid nights off. I make for terrible company when I'm by myself."

Under the harsh fluorescent lights John's face looked drawn and gray. His long coat disguising just how thin he'd become over the past few weeks. "I won't risk you, John. Please, go home"

John took a step back, the corners of his lips turning down. "You're trying to protect me? You think it'll be different if Samaritan catches up with me on my own?"

"Please," Harold whispered as he pushed off of the drink display and brushed his coat flat. He'd run his own tests on the cover identities. John's apartment was one block away: on Bear's normal walking route, on the route from his apartment to the 125th Street station, between his apartment and the pharmacy and grocery and coffee shop and bookstore. John had been living one block away for nearly three weeks now, walking the same streets as Harold, visiting the same businesses.

The Machine couldn't have been more obvious if it tried. The only way they'd survive Samaritan was to stay hidden and if John didn't understand that then it was up to Harold to remind him just how precious the cover identities were.

"Was that a yes?" John was focused on Harold's face and the older man knew that he had betrayed himself.

"Yes."

John dropped his head in a failed attempt to hide his broad smile. He took Harold's basket, shaking his head when Harold went for his wallet. "I'll take care of this. Give me an hour?"

"I'll bring something for Bear."

"But he loves spaghetti."

"John!"

"Not that _I'd_ ever fed him spaghetti. Lionel, though..."

"I'll bring his food. And we'll see you later this evening."


	3. Chapter 3

A little over an hour later, after a return trip to the store, Harold and Bear stood on John's stoop. Harold was still dressed in his work clothes under his coat. Jacket, pants and shirtsleeves that caught more wrinkle than he was accustomed to. He'd considered changing into something less bland, but this was just dinner, a reluctant dinner at that. He checked his reflection in the glass paneled security and brushed his hand over his coat. Dinner with John.

This was all ridiculous, of course. Harold understood the long game as well as anyone. The newspapers spared no ink these days covering the latest victories for national confidence. In the weeks since the "Post Office Massacre", as they called it, hundreds of "Vigilance" terror cells had been neutralized by coordinated police and military force. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Fort Worth, Nashville, Honolulu. Samaritan's influence was growing all over the country. Maybe it had already bypassed Root's hack and was now trying to lull them into a false sense of complacency. The street was quiet at this time of night, but Greer's operatives could be anywhere. And yet, as both he and John had separately concluded, after so many weeks on the run, they were both still alive.

He shifted the wine bottle to his right arm and studied the mounted brass doorbell plate —J. Riley 407. Bear sniffed at the door then turned his keen head up to Harold. He was as anxious to see John as Harold.

"Alright." Harold groused and pressed the buzzer. A moment later, the security door opened.

John's building was much nicer than his own with a well lit and spacious tiled lobby. Harold bypassed the stairway for the promising 'Elevator' sign further down the hall. Too late to turn back now, he thought as he juggled the brown paper bag and pushed the floor button. When the doors opened up again, John was waiting in the hallway with a blue apron tied around his waist.

"You came," he said, closing his hand over Harold's arm. "I would have met you but I just put the sauce back on."

"That sounds promising," Harold said, shifting his focus from John's mouth to his eyes. "Perhaps we shouldn't linger?"

"Right. This way," John said as he slipped his hand to Harold's back and led them down the hallway to his open apartment.

"Oh, it smells wonderful!" Harold gasped as soon as he stepped inside and was met with the heady scent of garlic and basil. "I had no idea."

"So I still have a few secrets left?" John asked as he locked the door behind them.

Harold arched an eyebrow. John should know better than most.

"Here, let me get your coat. You can let Bear loose. I don't have any rare first editions laying around. Do you have your phone on you?"

"As if this isn't dangerous enough? No," Harold said, unhooking Bear's leash.

John nodded as he hung Harold's coat on the hook next to his then turned to face Harold. "I'm glad you came."

"So am I. I can already tell you made better use of my shopping list than I would have."

John's brow furrowed and he pinched his lips. The half smile that followed was tight. "If food does the trick so be it. Come on in and make yourself comfortable."

John's apartment, on the whole, was much larger than his. Hardwood floors laid with thick rugs, tall windows lining the living room, the heavy drapes tied back, a full sized kitchen with a table for four. Harold calculated the probable square footage and corresponding rent.

"Do you live here alone?" Harold asked, following John to the source of the richly scented food.

"As far as I know. But there is a second bedroom, if you're interested."

"I'm fine," Harold said tightly.

"I guess your Machine decided the extra space would keep me from going stir crazy," John teased as he returned to his cooking. "I'm guessing it knew you would be fine with less."

"To each according to his need," Harold murmured, joining him at the stove.

There was a furiously boiling pot of water on one burner and a lidded pot piping steam on another. Harold moved out of the way and enjoyed the show of John's long arms dancing over the cook top. He tossed a pinch of salt into the water followed by a quick pour of olive oil. While that mixed, he reached across the counter for the opened box of spaghetti with one hand and plucked a slotted and pronged scoop from the utensil holder with the other. Working quickly, he slid the long noodles into the water and gave them a stir.

"Dinner will be ready soon if you want to help me dish up," John said as he lifted the lid from the second pot and stirred the fragrant sauce.

"What do you need me to do?" Harold asked, unbuttoning his shirtsleeves and rolling them back.

"Get Bear set up and pour the wine. There are some bowls in the cabinet for him, glasses are in there too," John said. 

Harold watch with open admiration as John leaned over the open oven and pulled out a crisp loaf of garlic bread. "You've become quite domesticated since I last saw you. You've adjusted well," Harold said, turning away from the stove to collect the dishes and wine glasses. 

"Cooking passes the time.”

"I'd think your new identity as a police detective would be engaging enough?"

"I'm on the narcotics squad. Junkies and bodies," John murmured as he scooped a strand of pasta from the boiling pot to test it. "It's not really the kind of thing I want to engage in."

Harold moved to the far end of the counter and grabbed the unopened bag of dog food. "But you get a chance to utilize your skill set?" he asked as he filled Bear's bowls.

"No. Turns out my skill set is saving lives, not standing by and picking up the pieces after the fact."

Harold dropped his head at the bitterness in John's voice. He focused on his rummage through the silverware drawer in search of a wine opener, composing himself before he continued. "Have you been keeping up with the news?"

"It's hard not to," John said as he lifted the spaghetti pot and walked it to the sink to drain. "Who knew there were so many terrorist groups based right here in New York?" You'd think we'd have run across some of them before now?"

"I suppose Samaritan is still cleaning up."

Keeping his back to Harold, John pulled two large plates from the cupboard and laid them our deliberately.  "Have you heard anything from the Machine?"

"No."

"Nothing from Root or Shaw?" he asked, piling the plates with spaghetti. 

"No." Harold watched John's head drop.

John carried the plates to the stove and ladled the Bolognese sauce atop the pasta. "And you? Your shoulder? You're okay?"

"Yes. Bear and I are settled in just down the street. Strange coincidence."

"It's no coincidence, Harold. Your Machine meant for us to find each other." John brought the plates to the table and placed them across from each other. "It's planning something."

"It will have to plan without me," Harold said as he took his seat. "I meant what I said earlier. The Machine's programming has grown beyond anything that I'm comfortable with."

"We don't know that it meant for us to kill McCourt," John said, returning to the table with a bowl of salad and the golden crusted garlic bread.

"You heard what Ms. Groves said, and if the Machine ever revealed its true intent to anyone it would be her."

"Harold -"

"No, John,"  Harold and shook his head in frustration. "I came tonight to see you. As a friend, not a co-worker. I gave my notice. I'm not going back, as if there was anything to go back to."

John untied the apron and took the chair opposite Harold. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push."

He should have anticipated this, Harold thought. John wasn't one to take a back seat or mince his words. This conversation was over for now, but far from finished. Yes, John had been returned to him, but the cost of dinner as friends, not co-workers, hung heavy between them.

"Is it as good as it smells?" John said at last, his voice broke through Harold's glum thoughts and grounding him in the cozy kitchen, with Bear now sitting at John's feet.

"Better."

"I've got a chicken and peanut curry recipe that I've been looking for a chance to try out. Maybe next time?"

"That sounds divine. It seems I've grown a bit used to take-outs and my own, admittedly, weak, cooking skills. This," he gestured over the table with his fork, "is delicious. Thank you."

"You never told me your name, by the way," John said, twirling the spaghetti around his fork. "Sparrow? Kite?"

"Whistler. Professor Harold Whistler."

"Whistler," John repeated.

"It's an Australian songbird."

"That sounds exotic."

A sly smile played over Harold's lips. "It's also... old slang. Very old slang, for a phone pheark."  
  
John tilted forward. "That sounds more interesting than the songbird. Did you use the Blue Box for your phone hacks or do you have naturally perfect pitch?"

"Oh, goodness no," Harold demurred, impressed that John knew about the old fashioned devices used to hack the now obsolete analog call switching systems. "I built myself an actual whistle. It took a bit of fiddling to tune it, but once I did..." Harold lifted his brows mischievously.

"You started young," John said with a chuckle.

Harold refilled his wine glass. "It was a different world back then," he said. "Everything was still new."

"Well, Professor Whistler, new name, new job - This should be like old times for you, right?"

"Have I done this before?" Harold countered, emptying the rest of the bottle into John's glass. "Once or twice. The novelty wears off after a while."

"From what I've seen so far, you seemed pretty determined to make this one stick."

"Do we have any other options?"

John pushed his plate aside and took up his wine. "I've always believed in creating my own options in a case like this."

"What does that mean?"

"For starters, just because we have new names doesn't mean we have to start from scratch. You said you're set up down the street. And I'm right here."

"Around the corner, more precisely," Harold said. He tore a chunk out of his garlic bread and dropped his eyes to his plate as he scooped up the sauce. "About that... I came by tonight because I want..."

It was hard for Harold to concentrate with John focusing on him so intently. It was a sensation he'd experienced a few times before with John: on a high rooftop, on the floor of a train station, a quiet afternoon in the Library.

"I want you to be safe, John," he spit out at last, the bread forgotten. "And I'm afraid of the difficulties my... presence in your life might cause."

"And this is you warning me off?"

"This is me asking you not to pursue _this_ option," Harold said, his shoulders dropping. "I'm asking you to stop putting your life in danger because of me."

"I can't do that, Harold. I've got this thing with looking after the people I care about. Co-workers or not." John drained his glass and stood. "Do you have room for dessert?"

"I'll have to pass. It's getting late and I have to be at work in the morning." Harold said, pushing back from the table.

John stood and collecting the dishes. "Can I box up some leftovers for you?" 

"You don't have to bother."

"I made enough for a small army. Quite frankly, I'd feel better knowing you're getting a least one good meal a day," John said, dangling a strand of spaghetti down for Bear before he dropped the dishes in the sink.

"There is something to be said for Spam and rice, you know." Harold levered out of his chair and began gathering the rest of the dishes.

"Disgusting. Bear won't even touch Spam."

"And I suppose Lionel told you that as well?"

"That would be telling," John said as Bear gobbled down another spaghetti strand then eagerly cleaned the sauce from his fingertips. "Anyway, I'd be doing a public service keeping you both away from it."

"Thank goodness for your sense of civic duty," Harold said lightly, depositing the empty wine glasses and bottle on the counter top.

"I'd be in a better position to exercise my civic duty with help from your Machine," John murmured. His back was to Harold, but even without seeing his face Harold could see the tension in John's shoulders as he leaned over the sink, gripping the counter.

"Is that why you asked me here? You think the Machine has arranged all of this -the identities, you and me ending up in the same neighborhood so that we could just jump right back into doing its bidding?"

"There's no such thing as coincidences, Harold. Your Machine has a reason for all of this."

"It's not my Machine, John!"

Bear cocked his head and sounded a low whine.

"I'm just saying," John shook his head, "if there's anyone who can talk the Machine into giving us numbers again, it's you."

"At what cost, John? Your life? Sameen's? Some other congressman, the president? Look at me."

John shuddered a breath, then slowly he loosened his long fingered grip on the rim of the sink and turned to face Harold. Unconsciously Harold braced himself against the counter under the force of John's mournful eyes.

"It's over, John. This is our new reality. You have to accept that, otherwise you condemn us all to death."

"You once told me that we're already dead men. Saving a few lives along the way shouldn't change that."

Harold swallowed. "And if you get yourself killed in the process? Because I already know that I can't do this work on my own. And, unless it happens that Sameen and Root move into my building tomorrow, I have no way to contact them to carry on."

"So what am I supposed to do, Harold? Stand by and watch the city fall apart around me? Murder rates are off the charts and you know as well as I do that Samaritan is racking up bodies that never even make the blotter."

Harold raised his hand slowly to rest on John's arm. "The only thing we can do, keep our heads down and survive."

John let out a groan and stepped forward into the touch. "All that time Collier had you, then Greer, I thought I was going to lose you, Harold. Then I got you back, and I lost you again."

Harold tightened his hold as John's raw words echoed his own fears. He could make a life as Professor Whistler. He'd done it before, but before, he hadn't had option like John. "You won't lose me. I'm here. Now."

"And what happens when that's not enough anymore?"

Harold dropped his head to John's chest, his hand circling slowly over John's back, feeling the hard bone through his soft shirt. "I don't know. I just know that, for whatever reason the Machine led you back to me, you're not alone anymore."

Harold felt the tension drain out of John, the slow deflation and solid feel of his partner in his arms. Maybe this is why the Machine brought them together again. Because John, at this rate, wouldn't make it through the summer and Harold knew he wouldn't make it without John.

"You were going to pack me lunch," Harold said after a long while.

John cleared his throat. “Yeah, I was.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Harold's head before disentangling himself. "There's tiramisu in the fridge. You may as well take some of that with you too," John said, dragging his sleeve over his eyes as he opened an overhead cabinet and pulled out a handful of plastic food containers and lids. "Check the freezer. I picked up some soup bones for Bear."

"You're going to spoil him, you know."

"One of us has to, now that Shaw's in the wind."

They worked in companionable silence boxing the food. John found a cloth grocery bag in one of the drawers and carefully packed the containers. After testing the bag to make sure the containers wouldn't shift, John joined Bear in the living room, settling down on the couch and whistling the dog up to sit with him. With the background noise of Bear's contented sighs and John's indistinct murmur, Harold loaded the dishwasher. He sponged down the stove. And the sink, and the counter tops, and the table.

He gathered his take-home bag and walked to the living room. "It's probably time we got going."

John nodded. "I'll walk you back."

Harold knew well enough not to argue and being honest with himself, he wanted to prolong this visit as long as possible. All too soon they were out in the cold again, making the short trip around the corner and down the block.

"This is us," Harold said once they reached his building.

"I guess I could get used to this," John said, a smile ghosting over his lips as his eyes moved from Harold, to the front door, and back.

"I'm also... quite fond of vanilla ice cream. If you're looking for dessert ideas for next time, Detective."

"Duly noted, Professor." John slipped the bagged leftovers off of his arm and passed them over to Harold, catching Harold's hand in his during the exchange. Harold tilted his body forward and John slid his arm around him, pulling Harold close, resting his forehead against his.

"Goodnight, Harold."

"Goodnight, John."

John pulled away and the cold air came rushing back. Harold stood on the bottom step and watched him disappear into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Harold didn't see John for the next few days after their dinner. Four days, to be exact. Not that Harold was counting, more that he knew four days had gone by without running into John on the street or at the corner bodega or the dry cleaners or the newsstand or the subway station. Not that Harold was looking. It was better this way, safer. Detective Riley and Professor Whistler were protected, to a degree, by the identities the Machine had crafted for them. Why push their luck by meeting up again. Luckily, it seemed John had come to this same sound and rational conclusion. Dinner had been a mistake. Their new lives demanded caution and discretion, not the familiarity of shared meals or walks with Bear.

Yes, it was good that he and John had avoided each other for the past four days.

 _Ninety six hours._  
_Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes._  
_Three hundred forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds._  
Prudent.

“Whistler? Mr. Whistler?”

Harold startled awake from his daydream of spaghetti strands and red wine at the sound of the name. He was still in the stuffy conference room, along with a dozen other new professors, listening to the Assistant Director of Professional Development present a slide show on the importance of tracking, measuring, and reacting to trends in student academic performance.

“Ah, welcome back Mr. Whistler. Now, let's all move on to the Teaching Proficiency Standards reports, or, as I like to call them, the TPS reports.” The Assistant Director smiled for a moment at her clever abbreviation before advancing to the next power point slide.

“All of our visiting associates are required to complete a weekly report – due on my desk by 9am Monday mornings, no exceptions. The purpose of the TPS report is to gauge the effectiveness of your class room planning and allocation of university resources. To that end, it is imperative that the report be filled out completely. Now, an eight page report may seem excessive, but the administration has determined, after nearly 30 years of solid results, that this is the optimal method for tracking the progress of our visiting associates. So, now that we've gotten all the background out of the way, lets jump into the fun stuff! Page one...”

Bear gave a muffled whuff as he resettled himself on the floor by Harold's chair. For his part, Harold would have been just as happy joining the dog under the conference room table. He'd been in this room all morning and the only highlight had been the packets of orange spice tea in the basket on the back coffee and pastries table.

For two more long hours he listened and took pitiful notes on his expected role in the academic environment. At last the campus clock tower bells tolled the noon hour and the seminar finally came to an end. 

 

He and Bear took the train home. Straight home. After four days, and after finally coming to terms with the hard fact that he and John couldn't possibly resume their association, Harold wanted to minimize the odds of either of them weakening in resolve with another chance meeting. It would be too easy to give in. Dinner had been a mistake... But, as some ardent part of his brain reminded him, dinner had also been nice.

All of his reasoning went out the window as he and Bear rounded the corner and came face to face with John sitting on the stoop. He was wrapped in his coat, his back resting against the brick wall and feet propped on the steps. Bear picked up his pace down the sidewalk, pulling at his leash as he also caught sight of the tall man.

John was waiting for them to come home, Harold realized with a jolt. He slowed his steps as he approached but John already had them in his sights. Turning back now made no sense and Bear was straining forward, eager to get to the steps.

“Detective,” Harold said warily. “This is unexpected.”

“Really?” John scratched Bear's ears and smoothed his hands over the dog's soft fur. “Did I interrupt your plans for the night?”

“No. It's just... I mean, I assumed... ” Harold rested his arm on the wrought iron railing and watched as Bear, his tail beating hard against the air, nudged himself into John's hands. “It's been over four days now. You didn't call.”

John looked up over Bear's head. “You never gave me your number, Professor.”

Harold's eyes widened. He nodded. “Right.”

“So. Are you free? Now?”

Harold frowned, his gloved hand gripping the rail. He opened his mouth to answer but John cut him off.

“Let me rephrase that. Is your dog free? I've got ...some time off. I'm heading to Central Park for a run in a bit. I thought, maybe Bear here would like to go with me.” John smiled up from his perch, his hand resting on Bear's back. “I'll have him home before the streetlights come on, promise.”

“That's a generous offer, Detective, but–”

“He needs to run, Harold. Let me take care of it.”

“John, we can't do this.”

“I know. I heard you last time. The enemy is everywhere, just waiting to pounce.”

“You can make light of this, John, but that doesn't change the fact that we are in a very precarious situation right now.”

“Here? On your stoop?” John cocked his head to scan the bustling mid-afternoon sidewalk in both directions in an exaggerated sweep that slowly came back to focus on Harold. “We don't have to have this argument every time. Let me take Bear to the park. Let me cook dinner for you tonight.”

Harold was used to having his own way, from persuading John to work with him in the first place, to saving the life of the congressman. Though John's wiles and logic were effective in the field, Harold had always maintained an immunity to the man's low whisper that invited one closer, and the deep blue eyes that seemed to see past and through what one intended. Before Samaritan, Harold held the needs of their numbers between them but now his defense was gone and he was tired of arguing.

“What time is dinner?”

John answered with a full smile that he immediately tried to hide behind his long fingers. He picked up the loose leash and stood, dusting his coat off as he stepped down to the sidewalk. “Six. I'll come by and pick you up.”

“You're just down the block. I can manage. Should I bring anything?”

“Just you,” John said, standing close to Harold against the iron railing, under the watchful eye of the building's security camera. And with that, John whistled for Bear and the two of them ambled off down the street.

  
Waiting by @Merionees on tumblr

* * *

 

Harold's cramped apartment was oddly quiet without Bear. He locked the door behind him and hung his coat, his phone still in the pocket, in the small closet just off the tight entryway. The weather was warming up but for now the windows were still closed against the late spring chill and they shut out the buzz of the world outside.

The apartment hadn't come with a television. So far, Harold hadn't felt a need to supply his own. Between the print and broadcast news he caught in the course of his daily travels, he was as uninformed as the rest of the general populace. He had about three hours before his date –before dinner, with John. More than enough time to pull out the handy little laptop and probe the darknet for the real news of the day.

The traffic was slower than usual on the underground networks. Over the last few weeks he'd noticed his sources dropping off one by one. Anyone with the skills to go this deep into the network was smart enough to do so without Samaritan's knowledge, but that didn't mean that those missing voices confined themselves to digital communication. How many of the insurgent arrests that the press was touting as victories in the fight against terror where just people, like him, who recognized how much the world had changed? And unlike him, took their questions to the real world? Was Ms. Groves one of these voices?

Harold tried not to think of the life he had before, but just as he was no longer able to keep up his shields with respect to John, he couldn't help but worry about the rest of his team either. Surely the Machine had done a better job of keeping the ladies safe than it had in keeping him and John apart.

Maybe that was the wider plan all along. Now that his refusal to follow along with the Machine's murderous intents was out in the open, the Machine may have decided to put its fate in Ms. Grove's capable hands. Harold knew the lengths to which Ms. Groves would go in order to protect it. It would be a smart move on the Machine's part to cut its losses and leave him twisting in the wind. He snorted at that thought. Him and John, because he was aware of John's negotiations with the Machine in the past and that, without Harold, John would walk away from the job too.

“Bear could have been useful to you still,” Harold whispered as he closed up the computer.

He ran the calculations through his head as he started a pan of water to heat for tea. He deconstructed his forecasts and reprocessed the known data. Opting to sacrifice John and himself this early in the game made no sense, no human sense. So what was the Machine's objective?

He undressed. He added variables. The building's ancient water heater struggled to heat the cold water while Harold pulled down a fresh towel and expanded the plausible scenario set in his head. Under the hot shower, Harold continued his reasoning. He knew what he'd taught the Machine, knew the base programming, but he'd seen the Machine circumvent his programming and write its own. Harold paused his soapy hand on his stomach.

The Machine had said they still had hope. Such a human construct, useless to a computing system. Ones and Zeros, hope was for humans.

Hope was running into John on the sidewalk.

Dinners and dog walks.

Now Harold's hand slowed. He lathered the soap and turned his analytic thoughts towards John. They were in no position to get back into the Numbers game, or take on Greer and his monstrosity. What was the shared connection when one stripped the mission from the equation? Dinners and dog walks? The Detective and the Professor... no longer co-workers but...

He braced himself against the tiled wall as he soaped his leg.

No longer co-workers, but friends. Men living anonymous lives shielded from Samaritan's gaze.

Harold rinsed his hands and relathered before stepping back under the hot spray of the shower. One hand gripped on the short hand cloth bar, the other closing over his cock.

John was a good cook. More importantly, John was aware of most of Harold's penchants, persuasions and secrets. John knew nearly as much about him as Nathan had, and much more than Grace could have ever guessed. Nathan and Grace had, in their own ways, been missed opportunities. How many opportunities does a man get in a lifetime? Periodic phenomena, the reoccurring opportunity for a life more ordinary.

_sin 2 θ + cos2 θ = 1 _

He closed his fingers at the wide base of his cock and drew the pads of his fingertips over his thick flesh, pinning the tip against his stomach. The water hit the sensitive underside and his balls while he teased his slick finger over the head of his cock. Shifting his legs wider, pressing two water soaked fingers along the seam of his balls and back to circle his hole.

_tan 2 θ+ 1 = sec2 θ _

John had kissed him after their last ...dinner. He'd bricked that memory up. John was tall, they'd been caught in the tight space between the sink and counter of John's kitchen. Emotions were running high. It was just a thoughtless kiss to the top of his head meant to diffuse the tension.

He pushed the blunt tip of a finger against the tight muscles. His cock twitched hard and in that instant he was able to slip past the ring to the warmth within.

_cot 2 θ + 1 = csc2 θ_

Harold worked his finger deeper, his knuckles whitening as he held on to the bar and added a second, stretching and sliding them together inside until his body signaled that he was close.  Slowly he freed his fingers and skimmed his open hand back over his cock, inhaling as it jerked under his touch. He closed his eyes and gave over to the heat of the shower and sting of the water against his skin as he mapped out identities minus the Machine and solved for Hope.


	5. Chapter 5

Harold stepped out of the shower and let the water run a bit longer to clean away the evidence of his earlier distraction. His toes curled in the pile of the bath mat as he toweled himself dry. The gunshot wound was healing underneath a tender layer of new scar tissue. No signs of infection so far, just the occasional itch and a further reduction in his range of motion for the time being.

With his towel knotted over his hip, Harold stepped off the mat and walked across the cold tiles to the medicine cabinet. He pulled out his toothpaste, hair wax, shave cream and facial cream, carefully lining the Dollar Tree toiletries on the side decks of the chipped pedestal sink along with his toothbrush and razor.

He brushed and shaved while his hair air dried, taking the time to properly shape his ragged sideburns. He wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, he thought, flicking on the overhead light as evening shadows darkened the corners of the small bathroom. He was long overdue for a trim up anyway, he told himself. He checked the length on both sides in the mirror, rinsed his face, and smoothed on the moisturizer before moving on to his hair. He rubbed the wax briskly between his damp palms then set about carefully styling his grey flecked hair, taming the wild mess first before ruffling and spiking it into shape, disrupting the slick perfection until he was satisfied with the results.

Just like every day normal. And, he decided after checking a few angles in the mirror, not too bad, considering.

Basic pre-dinner with an old friend grooming complete, he cleaned out the sink then walked back across the narrow hall to his bedroom.

Harold took some care with his clothes this time. A clean white undershirt and soft, two-button, cotton print boxers formed his first layer, his only extravagances in wardrobe during this time in exile. He slipped on the blue and white striped button-down, cut too long for his frame but adequate once it was tucked. Next came the dark blue trousers, just back from the dry cleaners for hemming. He topped off the outfit with a soft camel hair cardigan, an unexpected find from the thrift store near campus that was rapidly becoming his favorite piece given his limited wardrobe options.

By the time he got settled in his chair to pull on his socks and shoes, his mind had already moved ahead to the next thing. He should bring something, a bottle of wine, a Riesling perhaps; John had mentioned Thai and the wine had been a hit last time. Maybe a potted plant? Or flowers, flowers were always nice.

A bottle of wine. Appropriate. Casual. That's what people do, what he'd done with Grace. Of course, by the time he'd gotten to the second dinner and flowers and wine stage with Grace, he was actively courting her.

This was not that.

This was just dinner, another opportunity to remind John of the many reasons why this had to be their last dinner together. This was not opening himself up again to the illusory promise of Hope.

He stood and straightened the creases of his trousers. His wind-up alarm clock read just after 5:30, which gave him enough time to stop by the bodega, pick up a bottle of Shiraz and get to John's by six.

_So? Go, Harold._

Right. He shook himself out of his reverie, shut off the lights, grabbed his coat, and headed out. He made it to John's apartment with time to spare. John buzzed him into the building and Harold took the elevator up. When the doors opened again, John was waiting in the hallway.

"It's a shorter walk than I remembered," Harold said as he handed over the wine.

"That's okay, food'll be ready soon." John dropped his hand to Harold's shoulder and ushered him down to the open apartment.

Inside, Harold experienced a near classic Pavlovian response to the bright lemongrass and fragrant spice wafting through John's apartment. While John locked up, Harold undid his coat and began maneuvering the sleeve over his shoulder. He noticed, and ignored the close way John watched him and switched arms before hanging the coat on a hook between John's longer coat and a stiff new leather jacket. "Is there anything can I do, chef?"

"Phone first, then I've got a special job for you in the kitchen."

John waited as Harold pulled his phone out and snapped open the back cover to remove the battery. Now with some semblance of privacy, he turned and followed John through the apartment.

As he stepped around the new dog bed, set up next to the couch and already broken in with a well chewed tennis ball, Harold noticed the details he'd missed last time. The small table holding John's gun cleaning kit and a disassembled, vaguely antique looking pistol. The impressive collection of leather bound classics lining the book shelves, John's fish tank. It was a curious collection and a far more stimulating environment when compared to his place, the kitchen in particular.

The air was redolent of the rich peanut curry that simmered on the stainless steel stove top. Uncapped spice bottles sat at the ready on the counter top, along with the electric rice cooker.

"I'm liking the new look, Professor,"  John said as his eyes moved over Harold.

“Shabby chic," he answered with a false nonchalance, hoping to hide the rush of heat that warmed his skin under John's close scrutiny.  He gave a weak smile and ducked his head. "It's all the rage these days.”

“Here,” John took two long steps across the kitchen and unhooked a dark green apron from the back of the pantry door. “Don't want you getting splattered on my watch.”

“How considerate.” Harold took the offered apron and slipped it over his neck. “You should know upfront," he began, only to be cut short by a sharp twinge of pain in his shoulder as he angled his arms back to knot the apron in place. The pain was good, a reminder that the gunshot was healing, and it only lasted for a moment.

Harold exhaled and and offered John a wry smile. "I've never been particularly talented in the kitchen," he said as he steeled himself for a second attempt.

John was behind him in an instant. His fingertips brushed against Harold's as he took the ties into his hands. "You might surprise yourself," John rasped as he pulled the apron snug and tied a loose knot. He feathered his hand over Harold's shoulder on his way past him on his way to the stainless steel refrigerator. "Maybe you just need someone who'll take their time with you."

Harold snapped his mouth closed. He would have clocked the line as a heavy handed attempt at flirting had it come from anyone else. From Reese, it was just his standard issue style of communication. It had taken Harold a long time to get used to the sly, teasing innuendo that often crept into Reese's low voice. Combined with his ever observant glances and unchecked habit of touching, Reese could be a devastatingly distracting work partner.

Harold  walked over to the counter and watched John crouch gracefully before the open refrigerator. He pulled out several bags of fresh produce and laid them out on the counter.

“Start by rinsing these. Then grab that green cutting board and I'll have you julienne the peppers, carrots, and red onion for the salad.”

“Wash. Julienne.” He sized up the the peppers, carrots and spinach leaves with a nod. “Of course.”

John smiled and turned his attention back to the curry base: tasting, adjusting the spices and re-tasting. “Bear had a good time at the park. Maybe, on your next day off, you can come with us?”

“I'd like that. I have the rest of the week off before summer school starts,” Harold said as he collected the raw vegetables and walked them over to the sink.

“Not much of a break.”

“I wouldn't know. I've never actually taught a college course,” Harold said, distracted by the plump peppers. He set one up on end first, then lay it on its side, readjusting it until he'd finalized his plan of action.

“What's the class?” John asked, glancing across the workstation to monitor Harold's progress with the prep work.

Harold pulled a paring knife off the magnetic strip mounted over the counter-top. “College Algebra. It sounds more academic than Remedial Arithmetic.”

“That seems...like a waste of talent?”

“It's a part of the contract, I'm not sure what I'll be teaching when fall semester starts, but all of the associates have to cover a summer school class and I have a mathematics credential.” Harold held the stem end of the pepper in one hand and made a decisive cut through the middle. He banged the hollowed half pepper against the board to knock a few of the seeds loose.

“Harold?”

“Hmm?” He murmured, his attention focused on making a circular cut around the stem.

“Let me show you an easier way.”

Before he could protest, John was beside him. His fingers brushed against Harold's as he took the paring knife and set it aside in favor of a longer one. He balanced the knife in one hand and with the other, plucked a fresh pepper from the basket and lay it on its side.

“Take the tops and tails off first, like this.” John demonstrated with two clean cuts. Next, he split the collar of pepper down one side, opening it up flat on the board. “Now, guide your knife under the membrane and cut out the ribs.”

Harold leaned in closer and watched. John wielded the sharp knife with practiced ease and the rough pepper ribs and seeds quickly fell away. He brushed the discards away with a graceful sweep of his hand then lined the flattened pepper shell on the board.

“Now, watch, this is the julienne cut. Use your fingertips to hold the pepper in place, then push your knuckles forward. See? This is going to be your safety guard.” John explained each step and slowly demonstrated, inching his fingers back over the pepper as he cut a series of even, matchstick shaped slices. “Got it?”

“We'll find out.”

John flashed a reassuring smile and stepped aside. Harold's hand trembled slightly as he took up the knife. John had left half the pepper for him and he felt John's eyes on him as he tried to recreate the even, crosswise cuts. The blade felt heavy in his hand, the cool pepper, slippery. Harold chopped and shoved and in the end was rewarded with a sad mess of wide chunks interspersed with paper-thin slivers of pepper.

“Not bad,” John husked as he stepped behind Harold and slipped his arms through to the board. John's move was a complete invasion of his personal space and Harold's thin apron did nothing to dim the heat of the near embrace. He was jolted by the intensity.

During their years working together, Harold had grown used to these intrusions. He'd come to look forward the casual brush of arms as they walked Bear, or John's hand clasped firm and steady over his shoulder. He'd grown used to the offhand touches, and as he stood in the circle of John's arms, realized that he'd also come to miss them.

John leaned against his back and grabbed a new pepper for the cutting board. “Take your time,” he said. His breath was warm on Harold's neck. His long fingers curled over the back of Harold's hands. He was patient as he guided the pepper under the blade and one by one, a pile of perfect strips fell from the knife. Harold felt John press closer as they neared the end. “That's it, nice and slow.”

“And the ends?” Harold's voice sounded strained to his ears.

“We'll use those in something else later. For the salad I want this,” he said, reaching around Harold to fan out the precisely cut peppers. “You want to try one more? To see if you can go faster?”

John's body warmed his entire backside and he showed no inclination to take a modest step back. Harold dug through the vegetables for another pepper.

“Start with the ends,” John whispered, sending a shiver over Harold's skin.

“I think I get the gist.”

“It's okay,” John brushed his hand over Harold's arm, gently correcting his grip on the knife handle. “We're just waiting on the rice now. We have time.”

Harold exhaled. He the tile floor felt unsteady under his feet as he flattened the pepper on the board then took his time trimming out the ribs. In the tight confines of John's arms, Harold twisted back to look at him for approval on the deseeding.

 John's stubbly chin scraped over Harold's ear. “You're doing fine. Now, plant the tip of the knife here and let the blade do the work. Just like that. Up and down. Don't forget to push the pepper. Just slide it along.”

Harold was thankful for the waist high work counter as he ran the knife through the pepper with tentative strokes that gradually increased with confidence. John shifted his stance, fitting himself in closer, practically resting his chin on Harold's shoulder as he murmured encouragements.

“Impressive, Harold. Ready to move on to something bigger?”

“You make it sound less than innocent when you say it like that, Detective.”

John plucked a thick carrot from the colander. “I doubt there's an innocent bone left in my body at this point, Professor.” He closed his hand around the base and set the carrot lengthwise across the cutting board. “Same principle, same knife skill. Take off the top and tail first,” John said, dragging his fingertip from the wide top down to the bottom before spanning his arms outside of Harold's, planting his hands, palms down on the tiled counter. “Good. Take a little off the side so you have a flat base. Cut it in half. Now, I want all of the vegetables to be the same size, so try making four slices on the big half, three on the smaller end.”

Harold remembered the basics of breathing in and out. John smelledof fresh ginger, lemongrass, coriander, and the underlying clean scent of soap. Warmth suffused Harold's body as he recalled his own shower. The knife slipped.

“Don't force it, plant the tip and let the blade do what it's meant to do.”

“It's harder with an audience,” Harold said, his voice betraying his momentary annoyance.

“Everything is but I have faith in you, Harold.”

Under John's direction, Harold made the plank slices, then stacked the carrot and made the shoestring cuts. They spent less time on the onion. John showed him how to trim off the root and stem, then made a slit through the top layer in order to peel the skin off in one go. Harold demonstrated a few thin cuts to John's satisfaction and John cupped his hand over Harold's shoulder for a moment before leaving him to finish on his own. The private lesson was over.

“Where did you learn to cook?” Harold asked after he'd regained the use of his tongue and lips.

“It's one of those skills you pick up along the way.” John pulled his pan off the gas burner. “Not as handy as hacking into the Pentagon–”

“Lionel?”

John chuckled. “You have to admit, offering to hack into the government might impress some guys.”

“Only some?” Harold asked, scooping the vegetables into a clean glass bowl.

“Zip tying a trained government agent to a hotel bed might impress others.” Just then the timer for the rice dinged, cutting off the conversation for the time being as John directed the finishing touches. “There's a bottle of sesame dressing on the fridge door. Toss that in your bowl with a little salt and two twists of pepper then take your spinach and salad to the table. I'm two minutes behind you.”

They ate in the kitchen last time. Tonight was apparently a special occasion. The dining room table was already set: salad, dinner, and dessert forks, water and wine glasses, tea cups on saucers, triangular folded napkins dressing the white dinner plates. Two white candles sat in the center, a metal lighter resting at the base of the holders. Harold lit the unscented candles then stepped back to survey his handiwork.

“I thought you might appreciate something different,” John said as he came out of the kitchen, both hands full with the fragrant curry and rice. As if on cue with the food, Bear emerged from somewhere beyond the living room and sniffed his way through the kitchen to the table.

“I think I wore him out,” John said with a sheepish smile as he brushed past Harold and placed the hot dishes in the table. 

“Does he not like his new bed?” 

"If you mean _my_ bed, then yes, he approves," John answered with an innocent smile. He gestured for Harold to turn then stepped behind him to undo the apron strings. 

Harold huffed in exasperation as he tipped his head forward to allow John to slipped the apron over his head and off. 

"I missed him," John said quietly. "And he missed me."

"And that's all it takes to get into your bed?"

Harold felt the cool against his back as John moved away to circle back to the opposite side of the table. He watched as John folded his apron and set it on an empty chair seat, then pulled the wine opener out of his own apron pocket and made short work of the cork.

“Your silence is eloquent, Detective.”

“Well, your question was surprisingly direct. I need a minute to think about how I want to answer that.”

“It's a simple question.” 

John set the wine bottle down next to the salad bowl and turned to face Harold as he untied his own apron. “It's not always so simple with you, Professor.”

“Now I'm intrigued, Detective,” Harold said, tilting his head slightly when he caught sight of John's flushed cheeks.

“We can talk about it over dinner. Right now, sit. Food's getting cold.”


	6. Chapter 6

The hot and fragrant meal put talking on hold. Harold dove in, discovering something different in each bite of the spicy sauce and tender chicken. The curry was complex, nuanced – restaurant quality or better. This wasn't a random recipe pulled off the internet, John knew this meal, he'd cooked it many times before and perfected it. Harold glanced across the table at the play of candlelight over John's face. This food, much like the simple and hearty spaghetti last time, reflected a part of John's past. A personal experience that couldn't be recorded in a digital file.

“It's delicious,” Harold said at last, his fork poised in the air as he cataloged the flavors: Coconut milk, cardamom, ginger. “I mean, really, good,” he said, wagging his fork before diving back into the curry.

“Thank you.” John's low voice made it hard for Harold to determine if he'd actually heard the words. The thanks was just as evident in John's quick smile and the downward dart of his eyes.

Harold reached for the wine. “I could get used to this. It's a sight better than what I manage on my own.”

“Funny you should say that.” John slid his glass across the table and leaned back in his chair. “I've been thinking about your answer.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Whether you admit it or not, we both manage better together. Your Machine figured that out.”

“So you theorize,” Harold murmured as he refilled their glasses.

“I've had a lot of time for theorizing. A narcotics detective and a college professor walk into a bar, and you know what, nothing happens. Not unless the professor happens to be a big time campus dealer.”

Harold chortled at the idea of himself as a drug kingpin.

“But say they lived in the same neighborhood? Had a mutual love of dogs? Discovered commonalities outside of their day jobs? We already know that our covers are good enough to slide under Samaritan's radar. That gives us room to improvise.”

Harold rested his fingertips on the table and angled forward. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“When the Machine starts giving us numbers again–”

“If.”

John gave a slight tilt of his head, the corners of his mouth tightening slightly before he continued. “Assuming the Machine contacts you. The detective and the professor will be more useful together than either of us on our own. What do you say we build on the identities? You and Bear come over for more dinners. Stay for a few breakfasts.”

“Ah.” Harold sagged back into his chair. “We go undercover, so to speak?”

John dropped his eyes, fingers playing over the stem of his glass. He took a long sip of wine before answering. “If that makes it easier for you.”

“You have a second chance at a life without the numbers, John. It's not too late for you to find someone, maybe start a family.”

“I could say the same for you, Finch. You could buy a plane ticket to Italy today. Find someone.”

“Professor Whistler. And you know that's not possible,” Harold snapped, his lips turning down at the corners.

“Why not? You quit?”

“John, the Machine directed us to kill a man, based solely on his _potential_ involvement in bringing Samaritan online. The Machine acted as judge, jury, and, through us, executioner. That's not how I programmed the system. That's why I can't go back to the work. The Machine has grown far beyond anything I ever imagined and that terrifies me.”

“I know.” John averted his eyes. “I also know that if you honestly thought this was the end, that these identities meant true second chances, you would have made that trip to Italy weeks ago.” John sat up in his chair and leaned across the table. “Samaritan and Decima are still out there. So is your Machine, and it's looking out for you. Me too, if you'll let me.”

“There's no telling when, or if the Machine will ever be able to take on Samaritan. This may well _be_ the rest of our lives.”

“Well then,” a smile spread over John's face, “I couldn't think of a better way to spend it than undercover with you.”

Harold sipped his wine, watching John over the rim of his glass. Nuanced. The long accustomed flirtation laced with a studied neutrality. John was holding something back behind his easy smile.

The reasoning was sound, if faulty. Yes, he still loved Grace, but his reasons for leaving her behind would continue to bind him, with or without the shadow of the Machine. Grace, along with Nathan, Arthur, his father, they were all part of a life that he could never recapture. Ghosts. But John was alive and ready to re-hitch his wagon to their failed mission.

“So what do you say, Finch?”

“It would be unseemly to turn down your generous offer, I suppose.”

“Yes it would.”

“Pretending to be more than casual neighbors would benefit us both. Bear needs attention, more than I can give him on my own.”

“So that's a yes? For Bear's sake?” John asked, his smile widening.

“Well, I don't want to downplay the draw of the food.”

“I won't push my luck,” John said and raised his hands in surrender. “How about dessert? Think you could handle a slice of warm apple pie?”

“Maybe a tiny slice?” Harold was stuffed full with curry and just beginning to feel loose from the wine. 

“The tiniest. Come on, let's clean up. We can eat in the living room.” John snuffed out the candles then pushed back from the table and stood. “Did you ever get around to seeing _Once Upon a Time in the West_?”

Harold's eyebrows shot up. “It's two and a half hours long!”

“But you have tomorrow off,” John said, collecting the serving bowls and leaving the dinner plates for Harold. “If we don't finish it tonight we can watch the rest tomorrow.”

“So your plan starts now?”

“It'll work better if you don't call it a plan. It's dinner and a movie.”

“A date.”

“That's the spirit, Finch.”

Harold loaded the dishwasher then rinsed his hands to help John finish boxing up the leftovers. Working in tandem like this reminded Harold of working the numbers in the Library. It reminded him of late night brainstorming sessions with Nathan in the IFT Tower and weekend gardening with Grace.

Watching John lift off the plastic lid to the store bought pie, Harold had a startling realization. He had lived most of his life on the run and under the cover of a dozen false identities. Yet, behind the barricade of pseudonyms and lies, he still craved the comforts of a companion. Professor Whistler would, no doubt, find an agreeable colleague or two among the faculty, but he already had a true friend in John Reese.

John plated two small slices then popped them both in the microwave oven. “A la Mode or au natural?”

“You remembered the ice cream.” Harold nodded as John reached for the freezer door. “I like an attentive beau.”

“I can be very attentive with the right motivation.” John pulled a pint of Breyer's vanilla from the freezer and set it down in front of Harold with a flourish.

“And what motivates you?” Harold peeled the plastic lid off then opened one of the counter drawers for forks and the scoop he'd seen earlier.

“I thought you knew _exactly everything_ about me, Harold?”

“Shock and awe, John. I knew just enough at the time to get your attention.”

“Drugging and kidnap will do that. What if I hadn't panned out?” John asked, pulling the warm pie from the microwave.

Harold scooped two heaping portions of ice cream atop the slices. “The Machine would have gone to the next name on the list.”

John's lips thinned. “There's a list?”

“Did you imagine me placing carefully worded ads in the back of _Soldier of Fortune_? Of course there's a list.” Harold capped the ice cream and pushed the carton back across the counter top.

“You wouldn't have been happy with the kind of op who answers _Soldier of Fortune_ ads. They call them mercenaries for a reason,” John said, still frowning. He returned the ice cream to the freezer then pivoted to face Harold. “If anything ever happens –don't hire a merc to replace me, okay?”

There was no trace of humor in the tight set of John's eyes and mouth. Harold's pleasant wine and flirt induced buzz vanished. “Never, Mr. Reese.”

John lowered his eyes and nodded before clicking off the kitchen lights. Harold followed him out to the living room where a large television hung over the fireplace. He retraced his steps from earlier, around Bear, lying on his new doggie bed, and past the tall, draped French windows. Balancing his pie dish, Harold stopped at the three seat leather couch. A worn blanket lay draped over one arm and as Harold got closer, he recognized the tell tale signs that this was Bear's side of the couch. Two matching chairs flanked the sides of the room, neither of them offering as clear a view as the couch. John set his pie down on the glass coffee table and in a few long legged strides he was across the spacious room to pluck the movie off the shelf.

Harold weighed his options for a moment before choosing the opposite arm and seat. John let the dog up on the couch, _he_ could deal with the shedding hair.

John walked back, remote control in hand, and dropped down in the center seat. His arms and long legs invaded Harold's personal space like it was his own, crowding him into the soft leather corner.

“You'll let me know if it's too much? I mean, it is longer than average.”

Harold shook his head and scowled. “Really, John? I've already agreed to your plan.”

“Are you blushing, Harold? As much as I enjoy making you make that face, I really did mean the movie.”

“Oh.” He busied himself working the fork through a corner of the pie.

John edged in closer, lifting the remote to dim the room lights. “You sound disappointed.”

“No, you've always been pretty much what I expected and then some,” Harold answered just before taking a bite of the gooey pie and ice cream.

Ten minutes in, John set his empty dessert plate aside, stretched his arms high over his head. Eyes forward on the screen, he dropped one arm down over Harold's shoulders.

John's relaxed posture almost dared Harold to protest. Harold did not.

By the hour and a half mark the arm had grown heavier, joined slowly by the weight of John's head pillowed against Harold's shoulder. John was asleep.

Despite balking at the two plus hour running time, the movie was much better than Harold had anticipated. That said, sleeping John demanded his full attention. He inched forward for the remote and stopped the DVD, his movements eliciting a groan from the man resting against him. The controls for the room lights were straight forward but Harold left them dimmed for the moment. If John woke, the half light could cover a multitude of improprieties.

Sleep smoothed the harsh lines of John's face and lent him a curiously vulnerable expression. He was wearing his hair short these days, Harold noticed. He brushed his fingers through its grey flecked sable softness and down over the scruff covering John's cheek. So much more grey than in the early days of their acquaintance. John's familiar deep and even breaths, in counterpoint to Bear's contented sleep on the floor beside them. Harold allowed himself a smile. The three of them had enjoyed good lives before, comfortable lives, even with the never ending work of the numbers. There was no way John could be replaced.

Harold shifted to the side, his back to the arm of the couch. John curled in with him, his free arm coming up to circle Harold's stomach, his head falling down to Harold's chest. It was the sweetest of human traps, Harold decided.

Staying put was a tempting thought. It had been, admittedly, a long time since he'd last enjoyed this much bodily contact and it felt good. John felt good and warm against him, but his back was already objecting to the awkward angle and John's solid weight.

“John,” Harold whispered, gently nudging his partner's arm.

John repositioned himself across Harold, tightening his hold. “Not yet,” he murmured.

“Yes. It's time to wake up.” Harold cupped his hand firmly over John's shoulder and pushed. He could almost feel the moment when John woke, the tension in his body, a slow turn of his head against Harold's chest.

“Sorry,” John muttered as he eased off of. He dragged a hand over his face, his dark eyelashes fluttering against his skin as he oriented himself. “Did you finish the movie?”

“No. I got distracted.” Harold arched his back gently, stretching out the tight muscles. “Next time. It's rather late now and I should head home.”

“You don't have to. I can set you up with a place to sleep.”

“It's only our second date. What will the neighbors say?”

“That I'm the lucky dog who nabbed the eligible professor.”

“Not very imaginative neighbors, I'm afraid,” Harold said as he rose to his feet.

John caught Harold's wrist in his hand. “I'm serious. You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, Harold. I owe you everything.”

Harold mulled the possible ways to answer that before finally concluding that it didn't need an answer. The debt went both ways and they both knew it.

“You said there was a second bed somewhere?”

John drew his hand away, tugging his ear. “Not exactly. Why don't I give you that tour now,” he said as he pushed off the couch. John led Harold past the bookshelves to the back hall. He flicked on the light and continued down the hardwood floor to push open a door at the end. “Guest bedroom and bath.”

Harold gasped. The disassembled antique in the living room was only the start of a scarily impressive gun collection. Gun cases covered the bare mattress. Gun parts littered the surfaces. A folding table, piled with parts, armorer's tools, bore brushes and degreaser, sagged in one corner.

“Seizures. You never know what might come in handy some day,” John said with a shrug.

“Well, this room is clearly unacceptable.”

“You can stay in my room. Assuming Bear doesn't mind.”

The second bedroom was large and spartan. Unlike the kitchen and living room, the bedroom had the sense of John's presence. It was utilitarian and anonymous. A dresser, reading table, and chair filled half the space. John's bed sat against the far wall, offering exit to both the hallway and out the French windows to the balcony.

“I'll take the couch,” John said, walking across the carpeting to open one of the far doors. “Bath, towels, there's an extra toothbrush in the linen closet.”

“I didn't pack an overnight bag.”

“I've got some clean sweats you can sleep in. Check the bottom dresser drawer,” John said as he opened the cabinet above the dual vanity sink and grabbed his razor and toothbrush.”

“You don't have to uproot yourself, John. Your couch is comfortable enough but certainly too small for you to get a good night's sleep on.”

“You're awfully forward for a second date, Professor.”

“Practical. Your bed is huge. There's more than enough room for both of us.”

“Harold?” John leaned in the bathroom doorway.

“It's late, John, and I'm tired. Sooner or later your plan would have led us here anyway. If for no other reason than you don't have any place to relocate your arsenal.”

John's eyes widened fractionally. “You make it sound _completely_ innocent when you say it that way.”

“I was never any good at playing coy.”

“I like your enthusiasm.” John brushed past him on the way out of the room. “I'll go break the bad news to Bear. See if I can make it up to him with a quick walk down to the corner and back.”

Harold waited until John left before processing what just happened. Sharing the bed was sensible. It made sense for the cover. His back couldn't handle the soft couch overnight and it was too short for John's long frame. For less objective reasons, he suggested sharing because his curiosity demanded an answer to the question of just how far they would take this charade.

Harold found the pair of thin sweatpants and a clean shirt. Retreating to the bathroom, he emptied his bladder, cleaned up, and changed into the sleepwear.

John was sitting on the edge of the bed when Harold emerged. His back to the bathroom door, Harold guessed he was kicking out of his shoes. Harold hung his clothes, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead as he heard the rustle of John's shirt coming off and the bed creak of John standing to undo his pants.

“Do you have a preference?” Harold asked. He cleared his throat and added, “Which side do you want?”

“I'm flexible in bed, Harold. You tell me what's best for you.”

Harold noted that John had claimed the side closest to the door so he edged his way to the opposite side of the bed. The younger man was dressed in a fitted t-shirt and dark shorts and was busy drawing down the blanket.

“I need room and firm pillows,” Harold said, uncovering his side of the bed and inventorying the pillow and thread count situation. “This is fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” The teasing quality had gone out of John's voice.

Pretending to be lovers would have inevitably led them to this night. But with the pretending came a shyness that Harold had not anticipated. They climbed into the giant bed quietly. There was room enough to almost not notice the other body sharing the space.

Almost.

And not _body_ , John.

“Light switch is on your side.”

“Found it,” Harold said. He folded his glasses on the nightstand then hit the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

“Blackout curtains?”

“I work odd hours.”

Harold lay on his back, the sheets pulled up to his neck. Somewhere a clock was ticking down the seconds.

“How did Bear take the news?”

“Better than I expected. Treats may have been involved.”

“Beefy Bites? He likes those.”

“Hmm.”

They lapsed into silence.

“Do you need an alarm set?”

“No. The only thing on my agenda for tomorrow is stopping by campus to pick up the teacher's edition of the algebra text book. What about you?”

“Whenever you get up is fine. Bear will wake us if we loaf around too long.”

The bed creaked and shifted under Harold. While his eyes had adjusted to the deep darkness, turning to look was useless without his glasses. Instead he focused on the ticking – the clock was on John's side of the bed. He listened to Bear's snoring. He deduced that the rustle of fabric on the other side of the bed was most certainly John adjusting his pillow.

“Weather's warming up.”

“Supposed to be in the 60s tomorrow. I'm guessing all the corner crews will come out of hibernation for the weekend.”

“How does your schedule usually work?”

“Six days on, three off normally. If you're on the Loo's bad side you might end up with a four-two rotation.”

“So?

“I'm on four-twos for the rest of the month.”

“That didn't take long.”

“Apparently I'm disruptive and lack respect for the traditions of the NYPD.”

“John...”

“I know. For what it's worth I've gotten nothing but gold stars for behavior since we started seeing each other.” The bed dipped again. John's leg brushed against his. “You must be a good influence on me.”

“Is that why we're doing this?”

“I don't know. Maybe? I miss having you around.” The warmth of John's bare leg resting against his disappeared. “Why are _you_ doing this?”

“Because your place is much nicer than mine. Because my social circle is rather limited.” Harold turned his head on the pillow, making out the blurry lump of John under the blanket. “Because I miss you too.”

John's teeth flashed in the dark.

“You should get some rest, Finch.”

“You too, John.”

Lulled by John's breathing and the bedside clock, sleep came easily.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_The day was unseasonably warm, shorts and sandal weather outside. A lazy day in the Library. Harold leaned forward into John. “I know from experience, this won't end well.”_

“ _The guy ahead of me on your list?” John asked, ghosting his lips over Harold's neck._

“ _God, no!” Harold shuddered at the idea of anything beyond the cold, cash transactional relationships between himself and all of John's predecessors ._

“ _So don't compare me to your past,” John murmured against his shoulder, pressing his long body in close. “I can give you the happy ending you deserve.”_

“ _Do either of us deserve a happily ever after?”_

“ _Fairy tales still have a place in this world, Finch.”_

_John dropped his head and claimed his kiss. Deep, insistent and probing, silencing Harold's question of how much happiness they deserved._

 

Harold startled awake.

The bedroom was warm and dark. Disorienting. He fumbled for his glasses. John's bedroom. John's bed. Harold sat up and settled his glasses over his nose. The world focused. Across the wide expanse of rumpled sheets and plump pillows, John lay curled perilously close to the far edge of the bed. His arms clutched around his pillow and his back rising and falling gently with each breath.

The blackout curtains disrupted Harold's natural clock, adding to his morning fog. A shaft of sunlight spilled into the hard wood hallway outside the open bedroom door. It was at least 8:00 a.m., possibly later. Or not? Bear should have woken them.

Harold returned his gaze to John's sleeping back and was instantly transported back to the Library. It had been an annoyance the first few times Harold had come into work to find John asleep on the leather couch. Then it became routine, and then he started looking forward to it: late nights, early mornings, wrestling John's blanket away from Bear in order to tuck him in again.

Frowning, he pushed the blankets aside and eased himself out of bed. A very comfortable bed, he noted as he stood. Back pain was a constant in his life now. The thin mattress in his apartment was an aggravation he would have to endure until his paycheck situation resolved itself. Or, until he found someone with a firm, orthopedic mattress who was willing to share. Which, apparently, Harold mused as he padded barefoot to the bathroom, he had.

A while later, cleaned up and warm in John's oversized sleepwear, Harold crept out of the dark bedroom. Bright morning light flooded the rest of the apartment. Bear was in the dining room chasing dust motes. The dog skittered to a stop when Harold entered the living room. He sat quietly and waited as Harold walked to the kitchen.

“Not much of an alarm clock, are you?” Harold muttered as he scratched Bear's ear on his way past. “Normally you're famished by the crack of dawn.”

As they rounded the corner to the kitchen, Harold caught sight of Bear's food and water bowls. Both full, water droplets glistening on the plastic feed mat. The digital clock on the oven read 11:23.

“Oh. You've already been out, haven't you?” Harold flipped down the filter and turned on the faucet for a glass of water for himself. “Did you have fun? Hmm?” He dragged his knuckles over Bear's head, enjoying the warmth of the dog's flank pressed to his leg. “Where did you and John go? The park? Did you run?”

Bear tilted his head, guiding Harold's fingers to his ears.

“You never were much of a conversationalist.” Harold set the empty glass in the sink and looked around at the bare counter space. Bear peaked his ears when Harold began searching the cabinets. “No. No more breakfast for you,” Harold admonished as he came up empty with the last overhead shelf. And, it would seem, no breakfast for him either unless he made it himself.

Bear followed him to the refrigerator where the contents were more promising: milk, eggs, thick cut smoked bacon, a bag of shredded cheddar, and the left over vegetables from last night. He collected his ingredients, deciding on a simple omelette and toast. Next he pulled open the pantry. Tea would be nice, but he could make do with a cup of coffee. Scanning the shelves for a can of grounds and filters for the machine, Harold laid eyes on a sealed bag of sencha green tea leaves resting against a glossy, red clay kyusu teapot. Two matching cups sat on the shelf next to the pot.

“Overconfident, much?” he murmured as he pulled the teapot out and turned it in his hands, thumbing over the maker's mark. It was a lovely tea set, similar to the one he left behind when they were forced to abandon the Library. John was not a tea drinker and Harold was certain the handcrafted set hadn't come standard with the apartment.

He tried to imagine John searching the pot out. In their time together, in the quiet afternoons between the Numbers and certain death, they had shared many pots of tea. After a while, when John had watched him enough to learn to make it himself: the proper sequence of warming the cups before using the perfectly heated water to steep the tea, the steep time needed for each successive brew, the measured pour -uninterrupted- from cup to cup until the kyusu was empty. The memory staggered him. The Library was lost. Sameen and Ms. Groves, gone. The Machine, silent.

And yet, here he stood, well rested after a night in John's bed, with Bear scampering in the sunlight in the next room. Hope. He replaced the pot. There was not enough time to make a proper brew this morning, not if he hoped to make it to campus before the bookstore closed. Next time.

There was no noise from the bedroom yet. Harold decided he'd go back to wake John after he got the omelette filling started and a tray of bacon going in the oven. Perhaps realizing that the bespectacled man was nowhere near as generous as the tall man, Bear gave up his begging once the bacon went in and tramped back to his dusty game of catch.

Harold continued to prep, slicing the remaining vegetables and then turning the slices into neat cubes. He found two large saute pans in the under counter cabinet and soon had the vegetables on the stove. Cooking wasn't his strong suit but he'd had plenty of practice in his life. His first exposure came while taking care of his father, then eventually, he learned to cook for himself. Food was never a big part of his relationship with Nathan. Grace, he recalled with a fond smile as he cracked the eggs into a bowl, was a spectacularly bad cook. Those who can, do, and those who cannot, order out. John could, and did. Harold realized, as he splashed a bit of milk in with the eggs, that he was attempting to impress his partner with the ambitious breakfast. Changing back into his own clothes and walking to the diner would have been much easier.

“Morning, Finch.”

John's sleep rough voice, startling close, caught him unawares. He was unprepared to face his bed mate just yet and, instead, focused on recapping the milk jug. “I didn't hear you get up.” 

“Super powers,” John teased as he padded barefoot into the kitchen. He came to a stop just behind Harold, dragging his palm up the older man's back and over to his shoulder. “Smells good. Did you make enough for me?”

“I did,” Harold said, still feeling the warm path of John's hand. Head down, he picked up a fork and whisked the eggs. “You should have gotten me up when you took Bear out this morning.”

“I didn't have the heart. You looked like you were in the middle of a good dream.” His hand still resting on Harold's shoulder, John plucked a pepper cube from the bowl and popped it in his mouth. “How did you sleep?”

“Good. Your place is quiet. A touch warm, but good.”

“Next time, wear less clothes.”

“Now, why didn't I think of that?” Harold said, shifting away. “Oh, that's right, because I don't put out on the first date.”

“Technically, it was our second date,” John said as he brought his other hand up, cupping both over Harold's shoulders. "And," he whispered against Harold's ear, “you're cooking me breakfast.”

Harold smiled despite himself. “Small steps, Detective. Small steps.”

John set the table while Harold cooked. He worked quickly, setting the eggs on both sides, working carefully with the plastic spatula to flip the omelette over so that he could fill it with the cooked vegetables and a generous sprinkling of cheese. Next to him, John was toasting slices of wheat bread and the scent of crisp bacon in the oven filled the sunlit kitchen. Soon enough, Harold slid the thick omelette onto a plate and cut it in half. With the toast and bacon rounding out their plates, Harold took a moment to appreciate the rather hearty looking spread.

John pulled Harold's chair out for him before circling the table to take his own seat. “So, what are your plans for the day, Professor?” 

“I need to go home, get showered and dressed before I go over to campus. I'm getting a later start than I'd like.”

“I can drive you,” John offered.

Harold snorted. “You got all of this _and_ a car?”

“I'm sure that's just your machine's way of sweetening the deal.”

“Not my machine anymore, John.” Harold bit into his toast. Across the table, John smirked, then, reigning in his next comment, set to work on his breakfast.

Twenty, mostly silent minutes later, save for the clink of silverware on china, and the munch and crunch of the disappearing food, John laid his fork down. “Why did you let me eat donuts all these years?”

“Because I never got around to installing a chef's kitchen in the stacks.”

“Next secret lair.” John ran the back of his hand over his mouth before pushing away from the table. “Right now we should move. Beat the lunch rush.”

“Give me a moment to clean up.”

“Leave it, I'll take care of it later,” John said as he piled his dishes into the sink. He waited there until Harold came over with his own dishes. “Before you get dressed, may I?” John asked, pointing at Harold's shoulder.

“It's fine.”

“Mmhm.” John brushed his fingertips against Harold's neck as he drew the collar band back, revealing the healing gunshot wound. “You treated this yourself?” he asked as he traced his fingers over the rough skin. “You did a good job. It's going to leave a scar, but there's no deep layer infection.” He let the shirt fall back into place, drawing his hands down over Harold's arms, continuing his inspection. “Everything else okay?”

“Yes. I'm okay,” Harold said, unaccustomed to being coddled. He tried to pull away but John held him firm. “I can walk to my place. And be back here in about an hour?”

“Take Bear with you.”

“John – it's just down the block.”

“Why do you have to fight me on everything, Finch?”

Harold relaxed his body. John loosened his hold. “Not everything. I'm coming back. You can drive me to campus.”

“Okay,” John said. He pulled his hands away slowly, catching both of Harold's in his for a brief moment before breaking contact. “Go get dressed and get your stuff. Bear and I will see you in an hour.”


	8. Chapter 8

Harold walked back to his apartment dressed in the clothes from the night before. In his younger days he would have considered that a victory of some sort, but today? He hadn't even gotten a good morning kiss. He shook his head, disabusing himself of the idea of morning kisses and nights spent closer to the center of John's bed.

And yet, he mused as he let himself into the building, that was exactly what John proposed – in both word and deed. Though he'd feigned misunderstanding, Harold was fully aware that Detective Riley – John– intended this to be an ongoing arrangement. A continuation of the years they'd spent together already. Without the Numbers tying them, John played on their next strongest connection: mutual attraction and the shared fraternity of the living dead.

He collected his mail before climbing the stairs up to his apartment. He checked the inconspicuous strip of clear tape and the single, purposely angled dog hair, affixed over the keyhole. Satisfied that his space was secure, Harold let himself in.

He was on a clock. John just might come looking for him if he didn't return on time. He showered quickly, counting down the minutes as he dried. It wasn't until he opened his tiny closet to choose a clean outfit for the drive to campus that Harold realized he had another stop on his itinerary.

He got dressed nonetheless, grumbling at the poor options the entire time. Just as he was about to close the top dresser drawer, impulse struck. He pulled out three undershirts, topped them with a few pair of soft, cotton boxers, and piled a handful of matched socks on top. The rest he'd pick up later. Cradling the clothes in his arm, he limped back to the bathroom and grabbed a hair comb from the open 3/$1 package. Everything else John already had in supply or he could buy a duplicate.

Finally, he unplugged his phone charger and added it to the pile. In the kitchen he found a crumpled plastic take out bag and shoved the bundle inside.

He locked up, reset his simple tamper warnings, and then walked back to John's place. He intended to get his good morning kiss one of these days.

 

John and Bear were nowhere in sight when he let himself in with John's spare key. Curious, he walked to the bedroom where, from behind the closed bathroom door, he heard John singing in the shower and found Bear stretched out asleep over the foot of the still unmade bed. Harold bit back his, _down, boy!_ He understood all to well the appeal of John's bed. Instead, he dropped his sad overnight bag down on the near nightstand and wandered back out into the apartment to wait.

The kitchen had been put to rights. Dishes loaded into the machine, the stove top wiped clean. He had gotten the barest of tours last night, so he took advantage of the time and explored. Starting at the front door, there was a closet, empty except for a vacuum cleaner. Harold recalled the storage closet in John's old loft. The Machine had obviously decided he needed an entire room for his guns this time. Through the living room and past the kitchen, he found a door in the dining room that opened up to a small laundry with a stacked washer and dryer.

A breeze ruffled the drapes that framed the glass doors leading to the terrace. The promised weekend warm up had come early. He pushed the doors open and stepped outside to a beautiful view looking down over the tree tops. The park spread out in one direction, while high-rises edged the sky in the other.

A flicker of light caught his eye and Harold pulled back from the railing. Domain Awareness System cameras lined the street in both directions. The terrace fell within the sight line of at least two cameras mounted on lamp poles across the street from the building. The cameras were as good as an engraved invitation, he thought. There was no doubt that Samaritan could see them. Harold's lips thinned. Walking back to the safety rail, he leaned over to check the patio below, twisted up to measure the one above. Both were easily accessible for an athletic intruder.

“Bear would hear them first.” John, dressed in a long sleeved black knit that clung to his body and black slacks, lowered himself silently to rest on the rail next to Harold. “We'd hear the glass shatter. More than enough time to mount an offense.”

“Offense. What about escape?”

John shook his head. “Fire escape is in the guest bedroom. I made a few modifications to the windows in there that should slow down any unwanted visitors. You go there immediately, I'll be right behind you.” John arched his back, stretching, scanning the sidewalk below. “From there, we fight our way out.”

Harold glanced over, listening as John continued. “The plan is to make our way down to the garage. The spare key is wired to the frame, rear passenger door. If anything happens, Finch, get to that car and get as far away as you can. Understood?”

Harold turned his back on the street view cameras, a smile playing on his lips. “If your apartment is overrun by Decima agents, the plan is for me to hide in the guest bedroom until you can clear the fire escape. Then I get to the car and leave.” His smile widened. “Even if you give me the _Go ahead without me, Harold. I won't make it_ , speech? Because you left that part out, and it adds such a delicious drama to the escape.”

John stood, a wry grin creasing his face. “I thought that part went without saying.” His dark lashes fluttered for a moment before he extended his arm to invite Harold back inside. 

“Did you get everything you needed?” he asked, taking a moment to lock the terrace door and draw the drapes closed before following Harold to the door.

“I did. The run to campus shouldn't take too long either. I just need to pick up the textbook and stop by my office for my room keys.”

“Good. I should know where I can find you on campus.” 

“Will you be visiting?”

“I might,” John said, raking his eyes over Harold, from the comfortable leather slip-ons —well suited to his new, walking lifestyle— and up, denim jeans, brown belt, and powder blue button-down, his white undershirt peeking through the undone top button. “If this is what Casual Friday looks like.”

“Everything else is at the dry cleaners,” Harold muttered, turning his face away from John's deliberately intense inspection. He took Bear's leash then waited as John locked the apartment. 

“I'm not complaining, Harold. You fill out a pair of jeans.”

“Be that as it may–”

John smiled roguishly. “We'll stop by the dry cleaners.”

They took the elevator down to the basement garage and got settled Bear into the backseat of the car. John pointed out the electronic door opener as he guided them out of the building and onto the road to campus. Harold rolled down his window, taking in the sounds and scents of the city. He'd missed the small pleasures of a car ride.

“Where is your lot?” asked John as they pulled into the main entrance of the college.

“Let's go to the main parking structure. I'm afraid I didn't apply for a faculty pass.”

“So, do the paperwork. You might need the car some day,” John said, guiding the car along the campus drive as he followed the directional signs to the garage.

“I enjoy the morning commute. It's been some time since I've indulged in people watching.”

John cut his eyes across the front seat, tilting his head slowly.

“I mean actual people watching. In real life, with real people.”

“The people on the other side of your computer monitors are real too,” John murmured as he pulled into a spot near the elevator and cut the engine.

The words pricked like an accusation. “If you think I don't know that, John, that I don't appreciate the work we did before – then this is probably where we end your little scheme.”

“Harold,” John turned to face him. “I'm sorry. I do know.”

“So, you also know that we have no way of returning to the numbers.”

“And even if there was, I'd have to work them on my own.”

“How? You can't save everyone, John. You're only killing yourself trying.”

“I was doing that already when I met you,” John answered grimly. He left no space for a response as he opened his car door and climbed out. “Come on, Professor," he said gently, as if trying to diffuse the tension, "let's find your math book.”

Harold opted to let the subject drop. The work they'd done before was no longer an option. It didn't matter if they agreed on the details or not, John finally seemed ready to accept cold reality.

They filled the walked across campus with small talk. Harold recounted the college's history as they skirted the green lawn and strolled past the mix of newer concrete classrooms and old, ivy covered administrative buildings. Harold veered them onto a pathway that led to the building at the end of the quad. Inside, he checked in with the receptionist then escorted John and Bear back to the offices.

“I've got a lovely view of the cafeteria loading dock,” he joked as he stopped by the mail room. While names were engraved on a few of the slotted wood holders, the vast majority were simply labeled 'Staff'. Harold scanned the boxes for a moment before finding his, a hand scrawled post-it note slapped over the laminate label, marking the box 'Whistler'.

With his classroom keys and a blank copy of this week's eight page TPS report form in hand, Harold guided them all further into the building to his own office. “I got lucky, so they tell me. The adjuncts that came on the week after me are sharing space in the Student Union,” he said, unleashing Bear once they were inside. 

John closed the door behind them and let Harold settle into his office chair first before he started his perimeter check. “No back exits?” he asked quietly as he scanned the view from the office window.

“From here, no,” Harold said, logging into the college network. “But there is a stairwell off the waiting area, and once you're back in the main hallway there are three viable exit routes.”

John crossed over to stand next to Harold as he pulled up his departmental email and class rosters. “You don't have a computer at home that you could have done this on?” 

“I need to print out a few pages. This will only take a moment.”

John nodded and moved on to study Professor Whistler's framed diplomas on the wall. From there, with Bear at his side, he swept the office for bugs, thoroughly checking the landline phone, the desk top lamp, the vent behind the door. Harold typed for a while longer before declared his work finished. They locked up, collected Harold's prints from the copier, and left the building by way of one of the alternative exits.

“So, you're adjusting well. I think academia suits you,” John murmured as they walked, shoulder to shoulder, along the path to the bookstore.

“Superficially, perhaps. As a student...,” Harold's voice trailed off and he smiled at the pleasant memories. “My time at MIT was a revelation,” he confided. “It was the first place where I felt normal, like I fit in. But I've never had a passion to teach.”

“I never went to college, not like this,” John said. “I went straight into the Army after high school and the rules were more flexible back then. I took a few distance courses: classic literature, standard academics. Thought I needed a degree if I wanted to move ahead in my military career. Turns out the CIA was ready to make use of the skills I already had.”

Harold turned to look at John after that last, bitter admission. “What would you have studied?”

“Military History.”

“You can still do that.”

“No. When I was young and motivated, I had a reason to struggle through the coursework. Now, I've already figured out what I'm good at. I wouldn't be any good in a formal classroom.”

“I can't imagine school was much of a hardship for you. You are an exceptionally clever man.”

“Thank you, Finch,” John said. “It's the reading that's a challenge. Sometimes the words... don't settle right on the page.”

“Dyslexia?”

“Mild,” John answered, nodding, “and not officially. Read up on it on my own. Learned how to compensate.”

“How?”

He stopped and reached for Harold's hand. He turned it palm up in his right hand, then, with a finger of his left, traced Harold's name, letter by letter, over the warm skin.

Harold closed his fingers over John's hand and looked up to meet the younger man's eyes. Just then Bear tugged the leash, pausing the conversation for a moment as the dog selected and made natural use of a corner of the lawn. John produced a baggie from his pocket once Bear was done and cleaned up while Harold scouted the nearest trash can.

The moment was lost but Harold was content with the brush of John's arm against his as they crossed the street in front of the Student Union. A small group of students marched outside the bookstore and as they approached the door, protester's garbled chants grew louder. Ominously, two armed city police officers paced the walkway in front of students.

Harold shot an uneasy glance at his partner. John answered with a slow nod, sweeping his eyes from the police to the bookstore entrance.

Inside, Harold quickly found the teacher's edition of the textbook. To that he added a grade book, a box of pencils, graph paper, and a package of Scantron sheets. At the checkout counter he produced his staff ID and paid for the purchases in cash. When they came out, the force of two had swelled to nearly a dozen police. The students were now openly taunting the armed officers with chants of “Down With The Police State!”

Harold stared, open mouthed as the two groups moved closer together on the grassy lawn. From his reading he knew that these scenes were playing out all over the country, but it was still a shock to see it for himself. 

John used his body to shield and turn Harold away from the scene. He placed a firm hand at Harold's back and nudged him onto the sidewalk leading towards the parking garage and away from the confrontation.

Behind them, they heard the bullhorn crackled order for the crowd to disperse. John slid his hand up Harold's back in a gentle exhortation to hurry. "If something like that goes down while you're on campus, get back to your office and lock down."

Harold was still rattled by the violent confrontation when they returned to the car and he didn't pull away when John smoothed a calming stroke over his back. Harold stayed close as John popped the trunk open and stored the paperwork and books before he unlocked the rear door for Bear. The wail of sirens filled the air. Reinforcements were arriving on the scene now. Harold buckled his seat belt and gave John a small nod. It was time to go. 

John kept his hand on Harold's knee as they drove back across town to the neighborhood dry cleaner. 

“Where to now, Professor?” John asked after Harold picked up his clothes for the upcoming week.

“So solicitous, Detective,” Harold said warmly, his equilibrium restored. “We should go home, I suppose.” 

“Lunch?” John guided the car past Harold's place, around the next corner to the entrance to his building's underground garage.

“Not for me yet. Besides, your kitchen is stocked for sandwiches if I get hungry before dinner.”

Once they were parked and back inside, Harold took the dry cleaning from John's arms. Not that he doubted John's ability to hang the clothes, Harold simply had his own preferences for how he liked his suits unbagged and hung.

John had tidied the room this morning, picked up his discarded clothes, made the bed. Harold opened the closet he'd used last night and puzzled for a moment when the mirrored door slid back to reveal a rack full of John's suits where, last night, there had been plenty of room to hang his own clothes. He pushed the sliding doors back in the opposite direction. The other side of the rack was empty: room for a dozen suits, floor space for shoes, shelving above for hats. Harold glanced back to the bed, the matching nightstands. His overnight bag was gone.

He hooked the suits on the rack and limped over to John's dresser. His socks and boxers sat neatly on the right side of the wide drawer. The second drawer was similarly set up: John's deep v-neck undershirts folded and stacked to the left, and Harold's crew neck shirts laying on the right.

Harold closed the drawers and pressed his fingers to his lips.

John had left the rest of his things in the bathroom, lined along the right side of the double sink vanity. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet above his sink. _His sink_. It was still empty but already Harold began a mental list of duplicate essentials he would need to fill the shelves.

“I can move it if you'd rather set up camp in the guest bath.” John stood in the bedroom, looking in through the open bath door.

“No... This is fine.” Harold closed the cabinet. “Did I just move in with you?”

John's grin was quick and bright. “I told you it would work better once you stopped thinking of this as a scheme.”

Harold quirked his lip skeptically. Shutting off the bathroom light, he walked out to meet John. “And you're okay with all of this?”

“I'm not sure how many times I have to tell you I'm okay with it, Finch.” John's eyes narrowed slightly and he offered his hand. “Maybe I should try showing you instead?”


	9. Chapter 9

Harold's face went hot at the suggestion in John's question. No one had ever been this forward with him. Curiosity and bumbling luck had marked his teenage romances. Nathan came later, audacious and fueled on dorm party alcohol when he had finally made his move. Grace, he'd wooed, slow and steady and with the intent that —when the right time came— he'd tell her  _everything_.

In a matter of weeks, John had gone from seducing him with food, to sharing his bed, and now, seemed perfectly content to set up house together. ****

Here,in the deepening shadows of the bedroom, as the late afternoon sun gave way to evening behind the dark curtains, the library, the numbers, and their lives before Samaritan felt very far away.

Closer, stood John.

Submitting to this fantasy would get them both killed. The logical voice in his head warned loud and insistent, he should put a stop to this nonsense now. Collect his sad sack of clothing and toiletries and leave. Take flight.

Harold took a half step forward and caught John's outstretched hand in his. Drawing his thumb across the palm he asked, “How, exactly, would you do that, Detective?”

John blinked. He took a step forward, his fingers closing over Harold's hand. “I'll keep you safe,” he husked. “I'll keep you fed: breakfast, lunch, dinners, anything you want. Whatever you need.”

The carpeted floor went unsteady under Harold's feet. He'd expected more of the flippant teasing from last night, not this raw admission that went far beyond their agreed undercover ruse. Harold tightened his hand in John's. “Why?”

“I've already left too many people behind. I won't leave you,” John answered, focusing his eyes on Harold. “No matter how hard you push.”

“So I've noticed,” Harold said softly as he took the final step forward. Close enough now to brush his cheek over the front of John's soft knit sweater, to feel the muscles tense beneath, the hard pounding of John's heart, close enough to smell the light, lingering scent of white soap and fabric softener.

John's hands splayed warm on his back and his on John's, intoxicatingly close.

“This won't end well,” Harold murmured as he held fast.

“We could try.” John rested his head against Harold's. “Let's a least have a beginning before the end comes.”

“John...”

John cupped his hand under Harold's chin. “Tell me what you want, Harold.”

He exhaled. There weren't enough words in the world to express what Harold wanted. He closed his eyes and slowly tipped his head as he pushed forward and brushed his lips over John's neck, feeling the wild thrum of John's pulse underneath as he nuzzled his way along the warm skin.

John groaned and draped his arms over Harold's shoulders, careful hands cradling his head. They shifted and adjusted together. John's lips grazing a light path from Harold's temple to his hair. Harold slid his open palms over the soft knit sweater, his lips scraping over John's scruffy cheek.

The thing with feathers beat its wings. This couldn't end well and surely, behind the flutter of John's dark lashes and the desperate clutch of his fingers, John knew this truth as plainly as he did. As obvious now as it had been the first time they'd met: a park bench beneath the Queensboro Bridge, the sidewalk outside of the corner bodega. Truth dogged them day in and day out, buoyed on the fluttering wings of Hope, palpable and certain.

Harold hauled John close and followed Hope into the hard kiss, clumsy and fierce. John angled his arm under Harold's and they both held on under the crush of lips and hands. John's warm lips tasted of cherry lip balm and exotic spices. The dam broke and they both pushed ahead into sensual dance of hungry lips and bold tongues.

Cradling Harold against him, John guided them both backwards across the carpet towards the bed. He broke the kiss, just long enough to drop down and roll onto his back. Harold set his glasses on the nightstand before easing himself atop John.

Lying chest to chest, Harold's leg snug between John's. The bedside clock ticked away the passing time. Below him, John lay stretched out smiling. Harold traced a finger over his soft, curved lips and John shifted against him. The kiss came slower this time. They explored. Testing each other with the light touch of fingers and deep, desperate kisses that were followed by slight pauses, slight nods: unvoiced permissions to continue.

Harold planted his knee between John's long legs, anchoring himself as he pushed his hand under John's sweater. Tongue, teeth, John's hard nipple under his fingers and the answering slow circle of John's hips moving against his.

“Harold?” John's voice was ragged and warm against Harold's skin even as his hands went still. 

“Hmm?” Harold murmured as he traced lazy kisses over John's neck.

“We can stop,” John choked out, holding Harold tight against the length of his body. “Just..say when.”

It took a moment for John's meaning to sink in. Harold raised his head. “Do you  _want_ to stop?”

“No. I don't. I will. If you need to, but I don't want...” John broke off, fingers digging into Harold's hips as he shook his head.

“Where did you think this was leading, Detective?”

“Honestly? I've been winging it since dinner. I didn't know that you'd stay.”

Harold rolled to his side, his hand still hooked under John's sweater where it rested warm over his stomach. “I suppose we could... slow down. After all, I was the one who showed up on your doorstep with my dog and glad rags.”

“I was going to clear out a drawer for you anyway,” John whispered, brushing the back of his hand down Harold's cheek.

“I don't have quite as much space at my place,” Harold said as he settled into the crook of John's arm. “Could you get by with a shelf in the towel closet?”

“I've gotten by on less.” John threaded his fingers through Harold's hair. “I put your school supplies on the dining room table, if you need to work on that tonight.”

“It can hold, we have the weekend,” Harold said, easing his leg between John's again.

“Just tonight, before I go back to work.”

“Oh. Of course, Detective. When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, three to one.”

Harold winced, recalling their conversation last night. “Through Tuesday?”

John swept his thumb over Harold's lips. “The bad guys don't keep banker's hours.”

“As I well know, Detective. I'm thinking ahead to Monday. My first class is at 8am.”

“And me stumbling home in the wee hours of the morning won't help.”

“No, no, that's not the problem. I'm a light sleeper,” Harold said, tracing his fingertips along Johns sternum. “If not you, Bear or something else would wake me.”

“Light sleeper? Are you sure, Finch? You looked like you were deep in it this morning.”

Harold arched a brow in response to the smile playing over John's lips.

“Bear and I went out running for over an hour. Did you expect me to come back and just... stretch out on my side of the bed. Just fall back to sleep again?”

“So you watched me sleep instead?”

“I may have,” John murmured as he drew his fingertips up Harold's neck. “So, if it's not me disturbing your sleep then what's the problem?”

“It's not a problem per se. I'm just thinking –how does this work? With you gone all weekend, I should take Bear back to my apartment. We can come back Wednesday night.”

John furrowed his brows. “Here.” He arched his hips off the bed, slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key Harold used earlier, pressing it back into his palm. “Take it. Let yourself in and out as you please. Don't over think this, Finch.”

“You may as well ask me not to breathe,” Harold said as he closed his hand around the door key.

“No. I'm just asking you to stick with me.” John cradled Harold's face in his hand and pressed a light kiss. “Have a little faith.”

“You're very good at that, Detective,” Harold said, running his tongue over his lip.

“You're not too bad yourself, Professor.”

“We're not stopping,” Harold said as he slipped his hand from under John's sweater. “Just taking a break. Bear needs his evening walk and we should think about food.”

“Leftovers?” John asked, toying with Harold's earlobe. “Or do you want to walk with us? Pick up something at the diner?”

“I could go for take out. I'll have the curry for lunch tomorrow. Either way, we'll surely starve if we don't move right now.”

“It takes a while to starve a man to death, Finch.”

“I'd say that depends on what the man hungers for.”

“When you put it that way...” John slowly eased his arm free and swung himself to sit on the edge of the bed. “The sooner we get going the sooner we can get back to this.”


	10. Chapter 10

The warm evening air enveloped them as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Bear walking ahead, Harold and John close behind, shoulder to shoulder. They strolled the familiar route past the brightly lit newsstand, the hair store, and the now shuttered nail salon. Comfortable silence hung between them, as comfortable as before, the countless times the three of them had taken this evening walk.

But, Harold allowed as he once again caught the lingering taste of cherry balm on his lips, this time was different. Walking in step with John, Harold cast the occasional glance at him. John looked relaxed. Tempered, for the moment, was the hard edged ex-CIA operative that always lurked just under the surface– whether John realized it or not. Also subdued was the quiet desperation that had marked their recent meetings. Despair and fear, in some measure, for both of them, Harold guessed.

As they rounded the corner John caught his eye and held it. Harold smiled spontaneously in return, his cheeks flushing, smile widening as the gaze went on just a moment longer.

There was a logical explanation for all of this, of course. Mutual attraction heightened under the unusual stress of the events leading up to now: letting go of Grace -for her own safety- Harold reminded himself, Samaritan's manhunt, the tight confines of the cover identities, and the deafening silence of the Machine. Sticking together in the face of such impossible circumstances was a natural reaction. A good plan. A solid strategy until they came up with something better. Until...

Harold came to a halt.

“Finch?”

“If the Machine comes back online? If it contacts us?”

John's worried frown dissolved. “You mean when we don't have a reason to play house anymore?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “Who knows? You might be used to me by then. Or at least used to regular meals. Speaking of...,” John inclined his head towards the lit entrance of the diner on the corner.

 

“Hey there! Haven't seen you two in a while.” The hostess called, smiling down at Bear then up at Harold, as they came inside. She rounded the wait station with a tray full of drinks. “Give me a sec. I think your booth is about to clear out.”

“Take your time, we're taking out tonight,” Harold said.

“Sure thing. But I gotta' warn you, kitchen's backed up right now.”

“That's fine. We'll wait.”

“Okay,” she said before hoisting the tray and setting off for a table at the back of the crowded eatery.

Harold pulled two menus from the stand and passed one to John. “I'm a big fan of the open-faced pot roast sandwich.”

“Really?” John looked up from his menu, smiling. “Sounds messy.”

“Oh, it is! Grilled Texas toast piled with tender beef with soft pearl onions and little chunks of carrot, a side of mashed potatoes and all of it drowned in brown gravy.”

“Very 'down-home'. Where'd you pick up a taste for pot roast?” John asked, eyes down on the laminated menu.

“Really, Detective. Still at it?”

“Always at it, Finch.”

“Whistler.”

“Sorry about the wait,” the hostess huffed as she hurried back to her station. “I'll get you seated in just a minute,” she added, smiling up at John. “Looks like everybody's out enjoying the nice weather tonight.” She pulled out her order pad and turned to Harold. “The usual?”

“Hmm...” Harold closed his menu. “No. I'll try the grilled chicken breast this time, with a side salad, Italian.”

“That's different. Healthy,” she said, scratching out the order.

“Ah, and...” Harold continued.

“I'll have the pot roast sandwich.” John said smoothly.

The hostess paused her writing and looked up at Harold, eyes wide, then back to John. “Oh. Sure. Side dish?”

“I hear the mashed potatoes are good.”

“Best in town,” she said. “And a plain burger for your dog?”

Harold cleared his throat, ignoring the pressure against his arm as John shifted closer. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” John's low pitched question warmed Harold's ear.

Harold angled his body to face John, lips quirking to the side for a moment before turning back to the hostess. “No thank you. That'll be all for us. How long is the wait?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes?”

“Perfect,” John said, offering the hostess a wide smile as he draped an arm over Harold's shoulder. “Keep it warm for us. Harold and I will be back in thirty.”

“Sure thing,” the hostess said, tearing the order sheet from the pad.

“Fingers crossed,” John said with a sly grin. He dropped cash down to cover the bill then squeezed Harold to him. “Come on, Professor.”

Harold held his tongue until they'd exited the noisy diner for the warm murmur of the sidewalk. “You can't do that, John.”

“What?” John said as he fell in step with Harold and Bear.

“Discretion is the better part of valor, Detective. Displays like that will get us killed.”

“Or, firm up the cover. Unless you're telling me that you want to back out now.”

“Of course not,” Harold shot back. “I'm just saying, it's best not to draw attention to ourselves like that.”

“Why wouldn't I? It's a beautiful night out. I've got my dog. I've got someone else doing the cooking tonight. I've got you.”

They turned left at the corner, away from the four-block perimeter Harold had set for himself over the weeks since landing in this neighborhood. Past rows of sturdy red-brick buildings and the steady clusters of Friday night travelers. The boulevard was heavy with traffic as the three of them threaded their way through the crowded sidewalk.

“It's not as simple as that—“

John stopped walking. “It's exactly as simple as that.”

Perhaps sensing the change in the air, Bear came to a halt too.

“We've talked about this too many times already. In fact, the only time you take a break from over analyzing this is when you're in my bed.” John stepped forward, crowding Harold. “Maybe that's where I need to keep you?”

John's eyes drifted up from Harold to locate the nearest overhead camera. He stared boldly at the blinking red light then turned back to Harold and laid on an even bolder kiss.

Harold's toes curled as he caught himself against John's chest, steadying himself. A low groan rumbled through his chest as John coaxed his lips open.

“Get a room!” called a voice, followed by a smattering of high-pitched whistles.

Harold struggled to take a step backward but John held him firmly in place and pressed a last, hard kiss over his mouth before releasing him.

“Wait for it,” John whispered, standing still.

Harold's lips tingled and his heart raced. Their audience was already disappearing into the rush of the evening. Overhead, the red light continued to blink. Car horns honked. Somewhere, far off, a siren whined and faded away as it raced to some crime scene.

“Do you think our order's ready?” John asked after a while, pressing a hand to Harold's back.

“Not yet.” Harold flicked his tongue over his lips. “But we should turn back.” He looped the leash over his hand, signaling Bear up.

Back at the diner, Harold stayed outside with Bear while John dashed in to pick up dinner. From here, they were on familiar ground again, camera to camera, retracing the path home.

 

John took their dinner to the kitchen while Harold unhooked Bear's leash. He watched the dog dart off after the food. One ear cocked towards the kitchen, Harold dug his wallet from his jacket and pulled out two bills before following behind.

He found John filling Bear's water bowl. The bag of take-out sat on the counter, pushed back from the ledge. Bear stood on hind legs, sniffing hopefully as he stretched to reach it.

“Afliggen, Bear. You had a good run.” Harold said as he scratched the top of Bear's head. “But you know the rules. Human food is not Bear food. Human furniture is not Bear furniture.”

“He understands,” John said, shutting off the water. “He's not used to having both of us around yet. Give him a few days.”

“John, you can't spoil him.”

“I won't. I'll enforce all the rules.” John set the water bowl down. “I'll keep him off the couch.”

“And off the bed,” Harold said.

Bear exhaled loudly and John shot him a sympathetic look before turning back to Harold. “And off the bed too.” John pushed up his sleeves and turned back to the faucet to wash his hands. “But only as long as I'm sharing it with you.”

“About that...” Harold held out the cash. “You don't have to pay for everything. I have money.”

John yanked a paper towel from the roll over the sink. Smiling at Harold as he dried his hands, refusing the money. “So do I, Finch. The NYPD pays very well.”

“Be that as it may, our resources are limited and it's best that we live within the means of our covers.”

John's amused smile turned sly. He tossed the balled towel across to arc neatly in the trash can then pushed off the sink, stalking his way across to Harold. “So it was fine when I was your kept man, but now that your Machine has turned the tables it's a problem. Interesting.”

“You were never my kept man, John. You were my employee.”

John closed the distance between them, trapping Harold against the kitchen table. “And now I'm not.”

“No. No you are not,” Harold murmured slowly. He planted his hands on John's hips and deftly tucked the cash into one of his back pockets. “I can pay my own way.”

“Stubborn.” John rasped. He dipped his head, brushing his lips over Harold's neck.

“I suppose you'll get used to it after a while,” Harold said, smoothing his hands up the curve of John's back.

“I can get used to a lot of things.”

“Dinner first, Detective?”

John growled and pulled himself free. He spun on his heel and in two long strides grabbed the bag of take out. Mirroring John's haste, Harold pushed off the table. John caught his hand and squeezed and streaked them through the living room, past a startled Bear, to the bedroom.

Dim light spilled in from the living room, limning the tousled bed sheets and falling away in the dark corners. John tossed the bag onto the nightstand. They scrabbled together for the bed, picking up exactly where they'd left off. Harold pushed John's sweater up, groping his way over the newly revealed skin and John answered with a hard kiss.

 John covered his hands over Harold's then took a moment to peel out of his sweater. Harold's eyes went wide. He touched, traced his fingertips over the network of puckered scars that crisscrossed John's chest and John went tense and still. His dark lashes fluttered shut when Harold pressed a kiss to his chest, and then the scurry and jostle was on.  

John wrenched Harold's belt open. Harold gripped John's shoulders to balance himself as he kicked out of his shoes and back as John popped open the buttons of Harold's shirt. Plunging ahead full steam, Harold hooked his fingers under John's waistband and stepped them both back to the bed.

“Here,” he said as he gathered the pillows and began stacking them against the headboard. John reached around him to pull the pillows from the other side of the wide bed closer. “I think that should do it.” Harold said after he fashioned an incline to rest on.

“You let me know if I need to move,” John said as he helped Harold slip out of the button-down.

“Of course.” Undressed to his white undershirt and jeans, Harold turned to face John. “And you?” he asked, unbuttoning his fly, “do you have any special considerations?”

John's motions mimicked Harold's as he undid his belt and slacks and let them fall to his ankles. “Like I said, I'm flexible in bed,” he answered, stepping out of his slacks.

“But surely you have...preferences?” Harold folded his jeans and draped them over John's nightstand. “What do you do, Detective?” Harold asked, pulling his glasses off. His brows inched up at the questioning head tilt John gave him and Harold pressed on. “Do you pitch or do you catch?” he continued, gingerly pulling out of his undershirt. “Do you spit, do you swallow?”

John went silent, his lips parted. He held out a hand to take the undershirt. “I kiss,” he rasped. His eyes traced down Harold's body. “I cuddle.” John stepped in close and brought a hand up to trace along the healing gunshot wound and over Harold's shoulder to the older scars. “I can do whatever you want me to do, Professor. However you want me to,” he whispered, nuzzling at Harold's neck, fingertips following the angry line of scars down Harold's back, to his hip.

Harold's focus narrowed to the warm aspiration of John's word's against his neck, the shudder and skip of John's fingers, the jostle of John's cotton clad erection against his own. He gave in to the fantasy. Carefully, Harold pulled John down to the bed with him. They navigated the pillows, Harold settled on his back, John crouched above him. Bodies and boxers easing in place.

John was an exquisite kisser, slow and adventurous. Harold sank into the comfortable bed as John blazed a lazy path from his mouth, over his chin, his chest, John's long body sliding against his as he made his descent.

“Yes,” Harold groaned when John found a particularly sensitive spot over his nipple and John flicked his tongue against the hard tip. Rasped a rough swipe through Harold's thick chest hair and across the pale circle of naked skin and hard nipple. He caught the nib between his teeth and tugged gently, the movement jerking Harold's hips against John's.

Harold's body was covered in sensitive spots and John found them all in turn: the soft curve of his rib cage, the dark trail of hair running down his chest, his inner elbow, belly button, the rough junctures of scar tissue and warm skin.

John rubbed his face against the front of Harold's boxers, nostrils flared, nosing along his hardness. Harold looked down, meeting John's eyes, shifting his legs wider to give him more room. “Keep going,” he murmured.

John's breath was warm through the soft cotton as he pressed an open mouthed kiss over Harold, working a slow, wet path from the top of the base to the tip. He flicked his tongue through the tented and gaped fly front and over the sensitive glans inside.

Harold straightened up on the pillows, fingers gripped through John's short hair, tilting his head, guiding John to a better position for Harold to watch. He nodded, _yes_ , when John caught the waistband of Harold's boxers in hand and slipped them down. John crawled backwards along the bed, his cock dragging over Harold's leg, soft kisses along Harold's thighs as he stripped the boxers off. Harold dropped his hand to his stomach and watched as John busied himself with pulling Harold's socks off. John settled back onto his haunches at the foot of the bed and swept a lingering gaze over him.

Harold studied John's face as he went, the shift of his curious eyes, pursed lips as he came to the knot of scars at his hip, the wide smile when their eyes met again.

“Disappointed?”

“No,” John said, shaking his head slowly. “You look comfortable.” He cupped his hands under Harold's belly. “Are you comfortable, Professor?”

“Very, Detective.”

John laughed, and Harold laughed, then John stripped out of his boxers and sat back on his knees and the air slowly filled the space between them again. John lowered himself back down, gently straddling around Harold's leg, his chest warming Harold as he closed his mouth over his cock.

Harold rested against the pillows and surrendered to the singular pleasure of John sliding his foreskin back and zeroing his tongue play in on the bundle of nerves just under the head. He took him inside, slow and tight, his tongue and throat constricting and adjusting around Harold's girth as he sank down to the base.

Harold stroked his leg along John's cock, caressing one hand over John's flexed upper back, the other clutched tight to the nape of John's neck. He struggled to keep himself planted against the sheets, afraid that the slightest movement on his part would bring this all to an abrupt, explosive end.

It was John who moved. Cupping Harold's balls in his hand, wet, hot as he slowly pulled off until he once again just had the swollen tip of Harold's cock between his soft lips. Holding him in place as he lapped away the tell-tale droplets of pre-come.

Harold's breath came in hitched gasps and, despite John's steadying hand over his thigh, he rocked his hips forward into his warm mouth. John ground his cock against Harold's leg, his body reacting to Harold's signals. He smoothed his hand up to circle Harold's shaft and tightened his lips around him, tightening his grip on Harold's hip and holding him in place as he came.

Head thrown back into the pile of pillows, fingers digging into John's back, Harold felt John's thighs squeezing around his leg, felt the deep vibration of John's groan, muffled by Harold's cock, and then, the warm spurt of John's release. There was no elegance or gentleness in the rutting, both of them too far gone for courtly displays of restraint now. All of the desperation and fear of the past few weeks laid bare.

John slipped his soft cock free from his mouth and Harold caught their fingers together as John lowered himself to lap Harold's slicked, rubbed tender leg clean.

“While I'll concede a certain propensity for hyperbole-,” Harold murmured as John stretched out beside him and caught Harold in his long arms, “-that was incredible. Exactly what I wanted. How I wanted.”

“So, it was okay?”

“Better than okay, John. Comfortable.”

John burrowed against him. “Just for a while,” he murmured, resting his head on Harold's chest.

 

 

The food was cold when they finally got around to dinner. They ate in bed, wrapped in the rumpled bed sheets.

“So, did you decide?” John asked after polishing off the rest of the pot roast.

“On?”

“Whether you'll stay the weekend or not?”

“Well,” Harold began in a measured tone, “I did notice you have a copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ on your shelf. I've been meaning to reread it for a while now. To pass the time”

“You don't budge an inch, do you?” John asked, smiling.

“Well, we won't be able to spend _all_ of our time in bed, Detective. I'll need something to keep me occupied.”

“I've got a few ideas.” John collected the plastic food trays and deposited them on Harold's empty nightstand before rolling back to the center of the bed. “You want to go again?”


	11. Chapter 11

It was the slightest of bulges. Poorly joined drywall or wet plaster, barely noticeable except for the way the thin morning sun hit the side closest to the bedroom door and threw the rest in shadow. The bulge ran half the length of the ceiling, from the center of the room back to the wall, flattening along the way.

John shifted, his arm heavy over Harold's body. Harold waited a moment for him to settle before he tugged the sheet up to cover John's shoulder. He went back to look for the hairline crack he'd found earlier, plotting a path along the textured paint between the terminus of the crack and the start of the seam.

“Thought we agreed no thinking in bed?” John murmured against his chest. He slid his leg along Harold's and made himself comfortable. “Did you sleep alright?”

“I did. And, I was just...” Harold trailed off in realization and dropped his eyes from the ceiling to the sleep ruffled mess of John's hair, dark against his chest. He eased his fingers through it, massaging John's warm scalp. “You?”

“Mmm. Very.”

Harold traced the odd swirls of hair, enjoying the softness under his fingertips. “It's too early for you to get up. I'll take Bear out for his morning walk.”

“He'll be fine for a while. I opened the patio for him so he can use the porch potty.”

“Always thinking ahead.”

“Right now,” John said, rocking his hips against Harold, “I'm thinking about hitting the bathroom so I can come back for more of this.”

Harold smiled. “That makes two of us.”

 

It took some doing but eventually they managed to get out of bed. John took off for the guest bath. Harold used the master bath to empty his bladder and brush his teeth. As he rinsed, he caught his reflection in the mirror and paused in surprise. He looked thoroughly debauched: brazenly naked and disheveled. His face went warm as he recalled the details of the night leading to his current state. Then, he smiled. Harold turned the tap back on and scooped a handful of cold water to splash over his face.

John was drawing back the dark drapes over the window when he staggered out again. Early morning sun streamed through the gauzy curtains underneath, bathing John's naked body in golden light.

“We're good to go for a few hours at least, it's just past nine,” John said, catching Harold's eyes as he strolled back to the bed. He flopped down over the blanket and grabbed the clock. “What time do you need Monday?” John asked, smiling across the rumpled sheets as Harold climbed back in to join him.

“Six.” Harold carefully rolled to his side, watching as John worked the digital controls. He started at John's feet: long, slender with rough calloused heels. His eyes swept up the knots of John's ankles, to his trim calves, dusted in fine dark hair. John twisted to put the clock away. Thigh muscles flexed over the sheets, spotlit by the morning sun. He was soft, balls and cock nestled in a compact thatch of dark hair. Circumcised. The dark hair thinned as it continued its trail up John's resting body. Harold followed the path, his eyes moving over his chest, small dark nipples at attention. An upturned arm, pale underneath except for the soft looking nest of hair. The journey took Harold's feasting eyes along John's wide shoulders, traveling the sensual curve and hollows of his neck, over John's grey flecked scruff and lips. Harold's eyes caressed the sharp cheekbones and then he found John's eyes, wide and clear, returning his gaze.  
They both leaned in together and missed on the first attempt, slightly off. Lips on scruff and the quick adjustment to bring them both back in line again.

John curved himself into the kiss, probing his tongue past Harold's lips as he guided the older man down to his back. Harold brought his hands to John's sides and palmed slow trails over his warm skin. They passed the next hour or so like that, wrapped together and exploring with hands and mouths, both of them sticky messes when they finally rolled apart again.

“I'd forgotten just how good this was for starting the day,” Harold said, slightly breathless as he dropped his head back to the pillow.

“We've got time.” John's morning voice was still raspy, his fingers strumming over Harold's tangle of chest hair.

“I'm not a young man any more, Detective. This is about my limit. Though, to be honest, I didn't know I had this much gas left in the tank so who knows?”

“What's your plan for the day, Professor?” John traced his thumb lightly over Harold's belly button.

“Class prep, for the most part. And a shower. I feel a bit ripe.”

John gave a low chuckle as he nosed along Harold's neck. “You are,” he whispered against Harold's lips then caught him for another kiss.

“Neither of us will get to our work at this pace,” Harold protested weakly between the gentle kisses.

John pressed his forehead to Harold's, holding still for a moment before he rolled onto his back with a loud sigh. “You should get up now,” he rasped, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“And if I dawdle?”

“Now you're just being a tease, Professor. Go.”

Harold laughed at John's petulance, but he took the warning for what it was and climbed out of bed for the shower.

The bedroom was empty when he reemerged a half hour later so he pulled John's robe off the back of the door and ventured out into the living room where Bear's empty bed offered the final clue. Harold rolled up the long robe sleeves and walked through to the kitchen to start a cup of tea.

John and Bear hadn't gone far, to the corner and back Harold guessed as he heard them return a few minutes later. John was barely dressed in a pair of black running pants and his rumpled undershirt from yesterday, sockless feet shoved into his shoes, the morning paper tucked under his arm. He joined Harold at the counter, slipping his arms around him and sliding his hands into the low hanging robe pockets.

“Morning, Finch.” He pressed a quick kiss over Harold's damp hair. “You cooking?”

“I can,” Harold murmured. He sat his tea mug down and leaned back against John. “Bacon and eggs okay?”

“Sounds delicious,” John said, giving Harold a soft squeeze. “Coffee?”

“Of course. Go clean up. I'll take care of it.”

“Gone.” John dropped the paper down next to Harold's tea mug and brushed another kiss over Harold's ear before pulling off.

 

Noon had come and gone by the time they got settled in the kitchen. Hot breakfast, coffee, tea, and newspaper guts laid out on the table. Bear lay curled on the floor beside John's chair.

“Are you a soccer fan?” John asked, folding back the sports page.

“Not particularly. Why?” Harold said around the slice of bacon he munched as he solved the crossword puzzle.

“There are some good World Cup matches this weekend.”

Harold lifted his eyes from the crossword. “I didn't know you were a fan?”

John shrugged and laid the paper aside. “NBA finals are over now, so it is this or baseball.”

“And you chose soccer?” Harold asked incredulously.

John picked up his coffee. “Baseball moves a little too slow for me.”

“Hrmph.” Harold sat his pen down atop the puzzle. “I take it you didn't grow up with the game?”

“No. Not really. Never really got into it.”

“We'll have to remedy that.”

“Your going to take me out to the ballpark?” John leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee while Harold rhapsodized on the allure of baseball.

“Yes, I will. What did you say the other night— Maybe you just need someone to take their time with you? There is something truly magical about the game.”

“Do you like basketball?”

Harold quirked his lips dismissively. “It's alright.”

“Would you come to a Knicks game with me when the season starts up?”

“Of course.”

John grinned. “Okay. So find us a baseball game this week. You can buy the tickets.”

Harold nodded. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank _you_ ,” John said. He sat his empty cup on the table with a sigh. “I need to get moving.”

“Oh.” Harold sat up. “So soon?”

“It's nearly two. Subway,” he offered.

“Makes sense.” Harold pushed his chair back. “I should get dressed anyway. Leave the dishes,” he added, standing.

“Do you have everything you need here?” John asked as they walked to the door.

“I'll be fine.”

“Call me if anything comes up,” John said, slipping on his leather jacket. “Or call if you get bored.”

Harold chuckled. “I'm confident that I can keep myself amused.”

They stood silently by the door for a moment before Harold smiled again and clamped his hand over John's arm. “You be careful, Detective.”

“I will. I'll try not to wake you up when I get in tonight.”

“Wake me. That way I'll know you got home safely.” Harold tipped his head up and John lowered his for a gentle kiss. “Go,” Harold said, stepping aside. “Don't want you to be late.”

John gave a small nod and then left.

 

Harold stripped out of John's soft, oversized robe and left it in the laundry hamper. Professor Whistler's clothes felt even more uncomfortable in comparison when he slipped back into them. After organizing himself at the dining room table, he unpacked his supplies and began the tedious process of adapting the class syllabus and creating his lesson plan. Afternoon slid into evening. Harold pushed through the doldrums of the simple mathematics text. Bear, who had been napping at his feet for most of the day, stood and gave a low whine.

“Alright, boy,” he said as he scratched the top of Bear's head.

A short while later they were outside. Harold let Bear lead the way down the sidewalk and eventually they turned the corner for his apartment.

He'd intended to just pick up the mail but the nagging unease of being away from his covert investigations for close to three days now ate at him. They went inside. The apartment was still secure. Harold unleashed Bear, freeing the dog to sniff out the rooms while he limped to the closet and pulled out his laptop. Settled in his threadbare recliner, he booted the system, loaded the virtual machine and then began his cautious probe of the darknet.

Aside from the usual anonymous rumblings, Harold found nothing of interest. He was about to close out the underground message board when a curiously titled post caught his eye.

**They've built it. It's here.**

Harold clicked the link and his heart sank. The thread consisted of eleven pages of meticulously typed text, post after post after post that began: _Our government is spying on us. I know, because they tried to kill me to cover it up. The government has a machine that is conducting illegal surveillance on a massive scale. The NSA is aware of it and is actively protecting this machine. Sounds familiar, right? But what if I told you that Northern Lights was just the tip of the iceberg? A sacrificial pawn?_

Harold glanced over to the door to double check the lock. With a heavy sigh, he returned to the post. The writer laid out a tale of working for the government. He laced his story with details that where all too familiar to Harold: falsified and altered intelligence reports, a ruthless government sanctioned death squad, a secretive meeting with the man who claimed to have built the machine.

Harold turned away from the screen. Men like Henry Peck could never be content with unanswered questions, no matter how dangerous the consequences.

It was nearly midnight when he finally shut down the computer. Peck had sprinkled dozens of supporting links throughout the posts and Harold had followed them all. Seemingly unrelated stories of business acquisitions, rogue terror cells, and random deaths wove together to solidify Peck's claim of an international stealth operation that was systematically eliminating advances in artificial intelligence.

Samaritan.

Harold dropped his chin to his chest. He had to respect Peck's analytical mind, even as the cold dread of reality presented itself. This online manifesto was just the start. Peck would go public, if he hadn't already. Harold recalled their last meeting. He had been persuasive enough to slow Peck down but not to stop him. A contagion like knowledge couldn't be contained. When Decima's agents tracked him down, as they surely would, and killed him, Henry Peck would join the ranks of those who died because of the Machine.

Harold slowly climbed out of the recliner. He was tired but even with his own bed just steps away, he wanted to get back to John's apartment.

“Bear, hier,” he called as he collected the leash. “It's late. Let's go home, boy.”

 

The bedside clock read 2:47 when Harold heard John come in. He listened as John walked to the kitchen, heard the seal of the refrigerator door opening, the pop of the beer cap. After a while the faint kitchen light went out. John's shadow passed by the bedroom door on his way to the guest bath.

It was 3:14 when John finally slipped into bed. He eased himself across the wide mattress and curled in next to Harold. By 3:42 John's breathing had evened out. He was asleep.

Without his glasses, and in the dark room, Harold didn't bother looking for the bulge that ran half the length of the ceiling, or the hairline crack. He had a good enough sense of where they were, so he set about reconstructing the angles the two lines formed and retracing his imaginary lines between the fixed points.  


	12. Chapter 12

Harold woke a few hours later with John sprawled atop him, sound asleep. Carefully he slid out from under John's long body and out of his warm bed. Creeping barefoot through the room, he collected his clothes and slipped out to the second bath down the hall so he didn't wake his sleeping partner. Soon he was dressed and out the door with Bear.

The darknet forum posting had referenced an investigative report series in the Seattle Register, so Harold's first stop was the newsstand. Paper in hand, he took the long way around the block, giving Bear time to handle his morning business before he made his second stop, his apartment. He brewed a mug of microwave tea then went back to the laptop.

Last night he'd sped through the lines of text, this time he read closer. The thread had grown to 15 pages overnight. In it Peck made, and supported, his claim of covert spying on a national level: by the American government, against American citizens. Connecting the threads all the way to the Office of Special Counsel, but not as far as the presidency. The White House, Peck reasoned, needed plausible deniability on the operation for the day the American people rose in revolt. It was, Peck concluded, an inevitability.

Harold straightened up in the hard plastic kitchen chair and slipped his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. His tea was cold.

He minimized the forum for a moment and opened a new window. With focused ease, Harold's fingers danced over the keyboard as he executed a series of inconspicuous search strings. Within seconds he pulled a patchy, but usable history of _Charles Walters, 36, Blogger, Mercer Island, WA, Single, No Children, No Known Relatives._

Peck was still living, just outside of Seattle, under the new name that Harold crafted for him years ago. A name that, once identified and probed by Samaritan, would lead directly back to Harold Finch.

Or, Samaritan would track him down as easily as he had done and neutralize Peck with no questions.

Harold's lips compressed grimly. It was foolish to imagine Greer would ignore the tantalizing details about _the man who built it_.

Contacting Peck through the underground forum was out of the question, as was flying to Washington to meet him directly. He could try going through the Register journalist, Vander Eldenbrock. Send a careful warning by way of a burner phone? He would have use of John's car all day. It wouldn't be difficult to take a day trip upstate where Samaritan had fewer eyes and ears online and make the call.

Peck's life was in danger once again because of the Machine and Harold doubted that either option would accomplish the goal of silencing the man.

Perhaps he'd...discuss this with John.

And John would...

John would be on the first flight to Mercer Island.

Harold mulled this over as he opened the Seattle newspaper in search of Eldenbrock's latest article: a speculative piece about the future of civil liberties that ended with an echo of Peck's words -impending civic revolt.

Eldenbrock and Peck, while they'd come very close, had no idea the scope of attention they were drawing to themselves with these words. These were perilous times and the world was different. And Harold acknowledged his role in creating this new order.

He glanced at his watch. John should still be asleep and Harold would rather not answer any questions just yet. He stowed the laptop, locked up, and left, tossing the newspaper away on the walk home.

 

John, his sleep wrinkled boxers riding low on his hips, shuffled out of the bedroom just after eleven. Harold closed the leather-bound edition of Robinson Caruso, gazing with open appreciation as John gracefully sidestepped Bear's doggie bed and the coffee table to drop down on the couch next to him.

“Good morning, Detective. Did you sleep well?”

“Good enough,” John answered. He looped an arm over the back of the couch and turned in towards Harold. “I tried to keep it down when I got in. Did I wake you?” he whispered against the bare skin just above Harold's buttoned collar.

“No, not at all.”

“But you were awake when I came to bed.” John said, carefully pulling the shirt button through its hole.

Harold shifted on the cushion as he freed his arm from the tight press of John's leaning body and brought it to rest on John's back. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Didn't take a lot of detective work,” he said, head bent, pressing kisses against Harold's white undershirt to mark each newly undone button. “The room was quiet when I came in.”

Harold dragged his fingertips along the V of John's hairline. “Are you suggesting I snore?”

“Not suggesting.” John's voice was muffled against Harold's belly, his hands busy tugging Harold's shirt front out of his pants.

“I've never had anyone complain.”

John stilled for a moment then slid his arm down Harold's back, curling himself on the couch to rest his head in Harold's lap. “I'm not complaining,” he said quietly.

“You never do, do you?” Harold murmured. He massaged through the fine hairs at the nape of John's neck, his other hand resting on John's hip. “How was your shift?”

“Mmmmm,” John groaned, relaxing under Harold's touch. “Busy. It's harder working blind,” he confided.

The weary truth had lost its sting. Harold had some idea of what working the Numbers meant for John. He was aware of the fact that, while they shared a common purpose in life, they were driven by very different reasons. For John, the Machine was a means of redemption. For a long time Harold had believed that was his motivation too, but now he had a clearer picture. Harold swept his fingers down the back of John's neck and flattened his hand over his shoulder, gently kneading the tight muscles. He had a better understanding of what it meant to save the lives that mattered.

“Did you finish all your class prep?” John asked after a while.

“I did.” Harold skimmed his thumb through the dip of John's spine. “I plan to fritter away my last day of freedom reading. I may run a load of laundry too. We'll see where the day takes me.”

John smiled up at him. “When's the last time you 'ran a load of laundry', Finch?”

“Professor Whistler,” Harold quickly corrected. “And, it can't be that difficult, Detective. I'll read the manual if I get lost.”

“That might be worth calling off for the day.”

“You underestimate me. Breakfast?”

“Yes.” John rolled to his side, draping himself over Harold's lap, resting his head in his hand as he smiled up at Harold. “You cooking?”

Harold arched his brow. “I'm beginning to think you've lured me in under false pretenses, Detective. This would be the third morning in a row I've cooked for you.”

“I can do it, but last night you seemed determined to pay your own way.” John said as he teased his fingers beneath Harold's undershirt. “Earn your keep however you want. If you come back to bed then I will gladly cook afterward.”

“Did you make it to work on time yesterday?” Harold asked, running his fingertips slowly along the waistband of John's boxers.

“I was early.”

“I'll want breakfast tomorrow as well,” Harold murmured as he extended his fingers down into the crease of John's hip. 

John unfolded himself from Harold's lap and sat up, carefully dislodging Harold's hands for the moment. “Those are fair enough terms,” he said, pushing off the couch and waiting as Harold joined him for their return to the bedroom.

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

Harold sent John off to work with a kiss and locked the apartment securely after he heard the elevator close. He spent the day completing the eight page administrative report. With the mind numbing busy work out of the way, he packed his classroom supplies and stored his bag in the closet for morning.

Laundry -with no mishaps, a light lunch, dishes, and then a short hunt through the building for the garbage chute filled the rest of the afternoon. Orange light filtered in through the French door curtains by the time Harold was able to stretch out on the couch and continue the adventures of Caruso and Friday as they quelled a mutiny.

Bear finally pulled him out of the story when he rose from his bed and walked over to lay his head on Harold's knee.

“Oh!” Harold gasped as he looked up and saw the hour flashing on the oven clock. “I'm sorry, boy.” He tucked his tea bag tag between the pages to mark his place and then sat the book aside. “Can I make it up to you?”

Bear nosed at Harold's hand then turned for the door to sit. Soon enough Harold and Bear were outside in the warm early evening. They took a new route, six blocks down towards the park then back past the all night drugstore then past his apartment as they looped the neighborhood back to John's apartment.

It was just past eight when they returned home. By the time Harold locked up again and set Bear up for the night he began to feel the pleasant physical burn of the long walk.

He poured himself a glass of wine before retiring for the night. It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed a long hot soak and John's bathroom, with its long and deep antique claw foot tub and enclosed shower, was ready made for the pleasure. He ran a hot bath, stripping out of his clothes as the tub filled. Carefully, Harold inched himself down into the steaming water and laid his head against the thick towel folded on the end of the tub.

In the end, there was no real point to discussing the Peck situation with John. What could they hope to gain by intervening? Much like he and John, Peck had been given a fresh start, an opportunity to do something different with his life. Peck had squandered that chance. Even if they could get a warning to him, without the resources of the Machine behind him, they would surely lose. They would all die, and for nothing.

Harold slipped down into the warm water, letting it buoy up his tired body. The logical course of action would be to stay away from Peck.

 

The apartment was still quiet when the alarm sounded in the middle of the night. Harold got out of bed, threw on John's robe and went to the kitchen to start a kettle of water.

Much like yesterday, it was after 2:30 before he heard John's key in the lock.

“A bit past your bedtime, Harold,” John said, locking the door behind him.

“Or, I'm an early riser,” Harold answered from behind his book, the overnight news, muted, playing on the television. “I suppose,” he said, laying the book aside, “if we're going to do this, I'd rather like more than an hour or two a day with you.”

John dipped his head, hiding his smile as he peeled out of his jacket. “So this has nothing to do with me owing you breakfast?” John said wryly, unholstering his service weapon.

“I didn't say that.”

“And you plan on keeping up this schedule?” John crossed through to the kitchen to pull a cold beer from the refrigerator before joining Harold on the couch.

“It's not really that different from the schedule I had before.”

“And probably more comfortable than sleeping at your work desk,” John murmured.

“A bit.”

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

They settled into a routine: Harold shifting the alarm clock forward, John pushing his bedtime back. Lives synchronized by a daily breakfast/dinner together until the off days. It was nearly a month before their schedules aligned for a full weekend together.

John was a meticulous housekeeper, Harold discovered. He liked to vacuum, taking special care with the area around Bear's bed. He disliked dishes in the sink and an unmade bed. He kept the drawers neatly organized and the bathroom tile spotless.

And once the apartment was in order, John cleaned his guns.

Harold would often look up from his paper grading at the dining room table and across the open apartment to find John in the living room, carefully disassembling one of the collection. His body relaxed as he cleaned and oiled the pieces and slowly rebuilt the gun.

On shared off days, John cooked. Twice they went to the movies. Once they went to the little jazz club around the corner. One weekend they settled the bet of -would the bathtub fit them both? It did.

Then Monday morning came and they slowly fell back into the shifting synchronization of Bear's morning walk and a shared meal.  


	13. Chapter 13

Harold spent most of finals week holed up in his office. Outside his window a truck beeped as it reversed into the student union loading dock. If nothing else the weekly food delivery served as a distraction to the exams stacked on his desk. His head throbbed from the dismal work of both the arithmetic on the paper and his obligation to grade it all.

Teaching, he'd come to discover, was a bore. Neither the coursework nor the students provided the stimulation he was used to. He had put in many hours focused on the weird crack and bulge of the bedroom ceiling contemplating the prospects that lay ahead for Professor Whistler. He tapped his dying red pen against the desk, shaking his head and refocusing on the scrawled exam paper in front of him.

There was a rap at the door and then John walked in. “Still at it?”

“I'm almost finished with the Friday class,” Harold said as he laid the pen down and gestured towards two more stacks. “Care to help?”

John closed the door behind him and crossed the small office to drop down on the red leather couch. “No thanks, Professor. Have you had lunch yet?”

Harold leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses off, running a hand over his eyes. “I would be forever grateful for a cup of tea.”

“I can do that. How much longer will you be at it today?”

“One, two more hours? You don't have to spend your off day cooped up in here with me. Where's Bear?”

“At home. I was hoping I could steal you away this afternoon.”

“Ah. And I severely underestimated the time I would need for this,” Harold said, his lips turning down as he looked at the exams.

John pushed himself off the couch. “One Sencha green coming up. Anything else?”

Harold straightened up in his chair and picked up his pen. “That's fine, thank you.”

He was in the middle of deciphering a messy polynomial formula when he heard the door open again. “I'm guessing there wasn't a line?” he said, head down, jotting a note on the paper.

“It's just me,” replied a feminine voice.

Harold jerked his head up and caught the scent of floral perfume as the visitor closed the office door behind her.

“I'm glad I caught you,” she said as she walked past the empty chairs to lean against the desk. “I don't think I did very well on the final.”

“You did not. You also haven't been in class for the past week.”

“I know,” she said, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “I promise I'll take my classes more seriously after this.”

Harold's eyes widened a fraction as she moved his notebook aside and slid up onto the desk facing him. “But I really need a passing grade for this class. I'm sure we can work out a deal, Professor,” she purred, inching her skirt up with her pink tipped fingers.

“This is highly inappropriate,” Harold said, rolling backwards in his chair.

She leaned forward over the desk, her low cut blouse falling open. “I won't tell if you won't.”

There was a sharp knock on the door and then it swung open. Harold looked up from the creamy expanse of bare skin to find John paused in the doorway, head tilted in question.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, balancing the drinks in his hand. John walked around the desk, positioning himself in front of Harold and sat the drink holder down. “I can come back later.” John's voice was low, eyes shifting from Harold to the young woman.

“No.” Harold said to the back of John's head. “Miss Weatherly stopped by to discuss her class grades. I was just about to suggest that she engage a tutor for the next time she takes this course.”

“Solid advice,” John murmured, still facing the defiant Miss Weatherly. “Second time's always a charm.”

“I believe we're finished here, Miss Weatherly.” Harold said as he slanted his eyes towards the door.

“Whatever.” She tipped her head to hold John's gaze as she slipped off the desk and smoothed her skirt. “Your loss,” she shrugged.

They both watched her sashay out of the office. After the door closed John turned back to Harold, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Unexpected perk.”

“Really, John,” Harold said, grabbing for his cup.

“You should set a policy, Professor.”

“I'm sure word will get around about Professor Whistler's attack boyfriend.”

John's eyebrows shot up. His smile bloomed. “The fiercest.”

Harold cleared his throat then took a sip of the tea. “I should get back to work,” he said in a soft voice.

John's hand brushed over Harold's as he pulled his coffee from the holder then pushed off of the desk. He plucked a book from the shelf and settled himself back on the couch to wait.

Two hours later John was stretched out on the couch asleep, the book open on his chest. Harold stacked and straightened the piles of graded papers. It was time to call it quits for the day. They locked up and walked through campus to the car.

“We could catch that Hitchcock festival at Cinema Village?” John suggested as they crossed the quad.

“You hate Hitchcock.”

“I like dark theaters.”

“You're going to get us banned one of these days.”

“They'd have to catch us first.”

 

They opted for a late lunch at the diner instead of movie night. Afterward, John walked him back to his apartment so that Harold could pick up his mail.

“You should invite me up one of these days,” John drawled, leaning against the railing as Harold reemerged from the building.

“One of these days,” Harold repeated, making his way back down the steps to join John on the sidewalk. “There's not much to see honestly.”

“Afraid I'd discover _all_ of your secrets?”

“How many do you imagine I have left still?”

John chuckled. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Good point.” They strolled down the sidewalk toward the bodega at the end of the block. “The Cubs are in town tomorrow if you're still game for an afternoon at the ball park.”

“Ah-ha. I had your favorite team narrowed down to the—”

The single phone outside the bodega rang.

Harold closed his hand over John's arm.

The shrill ring continued and Harold tightened his grip.

“Harold...” John's voice was dangerously low as he wrenched himself free.

Harold watched, open mouthed as John marched for the phone. As he closed the distance a young man stepped out of the store doorway and intercepted the call but John continued forward, snatching the phone from the young man's hand mid-stride.

Harold stayed put, holding his breath.  
After nearly a minute, John hung up the receiver. He turned his back to Harold as he dropped his head to the phone box.

“John?”

Slowly John stepped away from the phone and turned to Harold, his face was masked in neutral lines as he looked up. Harold straightened and met John's hard eyes, holding in place on the sidewalk.

“Nothing.” John said finally.

“A wrong number?”

“Is that what you think, Finch?” John turned back for the sidewalk where he cupped his hand under Harold's elbow and spun them both towards the corner leading to John's apartment. “Let's go.” He led the way down the street, his hand at Harold's back, strong-arming him up the building steps. 

“Surely this can wait until we...”

John guided Harold across the lobby to the elevator.

“There was no message,” Harold said, angling his shoulders. “If the Machine was capable of reaching out to you, I have to assume it would have said _something_.”

The elevator doors opened and John pressed Harold into the waiting car. “What if it can't, Finch?” he hissed once the doors opened again to let them off on the 4th floor. “Professor Whistler, Detective Riley? Your Machine is just as exposed as we are.”

Harold stopped mid-hallway. “Can we please go inside!”

John stood stock still. Then he slowly unclenched his fist and nodded.

Harold returned the nod and turned for the apartment. With a steady hand he unlocked the door and led the way inside. In silence John walked past him to set his detached phone and battery on the dining room table. Harold followed him, placing his unpowered phone next to John's before turning to face him.

“What were you expecting back there, John? That you'd pick up the phone and get a new number?” His voice rose. “After all this time? And then what?”

“You know _what_ , Finch,” John said grimly.

“Survival. I thought that's what we agreed to?”

“And I thought we got into this so that we'd be ready when your Machine reached out. That could have been the call.” John circled the table as he continued, his hard façade and tight set shoulders falling. “And you tried to stop me.”

“I will always try to stop you, John. Every time.” Harold drew himself to his full height. “We are not equipped to go toe-to-toe with Samaritan. We would die.”

John took a step forward. “We're going to die anyway, Finch. That's been the deal since the beginning.”

“The machine can't protect us anymore, John. These covers? This is what is keeping us alive.”

“Keeping us alive until your Machine was ready. What if it's ready now?”

“I quit, John. I built the Machine to save lives. How many do you imagine it's endangered instead? I'll start: Nathan Ingram. Grace Hendricks. Detective Jocelyn Carter...”

“And how many has it saved, Finch? Did you factor that into your algorithm?”

“I'm not so sure it's been a fair trade off so far.” Harold steadied himself on the back of a chair. “Police officers, journalists...innocent civilians, John. Do you know how many people died in the post office explosion? 137. The ferry bombing? 397 injured and dead.”

“We can't save everyone, but we can save a lot more with your machines help.” John held himself still opposite Harold.

“We can pick and choose? I've exiled Grace to Italy, uprooted her from everything she knew here in the city. I don't even know where Shaw is. And you? Has the Machine done you any favors by hiding you in the New York police department? If I'm choosing, then I choose you.”

John turned his face away. “We can't... choose.”

“But I already have, John.” Harold pulled his keys from his pocket and began uncoiling John's key from the ring. “I turned myself over to Greer to save Grace. I would do the same for you and beyond. That's why I can't go back to working the numbers. I built a machine to save everyone, but if it comes down to my choice, then I would choose you, and Shaw, Root, Detective Fusco... With the knowledge of hindsight, I would choose you all every time.” Harold laid the key on the table and pushed off the chair.

“Don't do this, Finch.”

“It's already done.” Harold dropped his head and turned for the bedroom to retrieve his things. A few minutes later, one clean suit slung over his arm and a small bag full of his under clothes in hand, he returned to the living room and found John exactly where he'd left him.

“Bear, hier,” Harold called softly.

John didn't try to stop them as they left and Harold didn't look back.


	14. Chapter 14

 Harold had been awake for close to an hour before the morning alarm finally sounded. Without his glasses, the ceiling above his bed was a blurred mess of chipped paint and cracks. There were no geometric puzzles to discover and solve. Cracks and chips and John back home and Harold, here.

Head heavy on the thin pillow, Harold circled his left arm over Bear and fumbled his right out to the uneven nightstand to swipe the phone alarm silent.

Bear's ears swiveled to face front and he laid his muzzle back on Harold's chest with a sigh.

“So do I, boy,” Harold murmured as he brushed his fingers over Bear's soft fur.

His world had narrowed to the safety of his shabby apartment, the dull familiarity of campus life, and his circuitous commute between the two. Today marked the end of the short break between summer session and the start of fall classes.

Blue striped suit, off the rack. Good enough.

He and Bear took the long way to the subway station even though it was 7:10 am and John should be stripped down to his briefs and sprawled out on the firm mattress, under soft cotton sheets, asleep.

 

Campus, on the first day of classes, was nothing like summer. Students and staff packed the walkways. Armed security guards ringed the commons, encouraging the foot traffic to keep moving. He trudged along with the flow.

Harold walked to his office first to settle Bear, then crossed campus to the Administration building to drop off his weekly report, and finally, a stint on line at the coffee stand for a steaming cup of bitter green tea and a steak and egg breakfast burrito to split with Bear while he prepped for his first class of the semester. Juggling their breakfast, Harold crossed the quad back to his office.

This was his new normal. After those first few days, when John didn't come knocking at his door, and after he had resolved to avoid the spacious apartment around the corner, with its soft cotton sheets and John sprawled asleep underneath them, Harold adjusted.

This was, in the end, the best course of inaction. John was safe. Wherever they were, Ms. Shaw, and Ms. Groves, and her band of young hackers, were all safe.

Harold couldn't, with certainty, say the same about Henry Peck. Three days ago his forum postings had disappeared. Typing in the URL to Peck's blog returned a 403 error page. When Harold bought his Seattle Register the next morning he found an article detailing _The Top 10 Fall Vacation Destinations_ _For Couples_ in place of Eldenbrock's column.

Samaritan had made the connection between Peck and the journalist. Samaritan, if it looked hard enough, could make the same connection from Peck to Harold Finch. The leap from Finch, to Whistler, to Riley, to Reese would be child's play.

“Professor Whistler?”

Harold swung to a surprised stop. At the end of the hall, in front of the staff mailboxes, stood a balding man.

“Yes?”

A sheaf of paper tucked in one hand, the man made an elaborate show of checking his wristwatch. “Cutting it close, aren't you?”

Harold bristled and cocked his head. “May I help you?”

“Norman Kraus, Department Chair. Apparently there has been some sort of... computer mix-up.”

“Oh?” Harold said warily.

The officious little man offered Harold the paperwork. “The Ethics of High-Frequency Decision Making,” he said dismissively. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 11:00.”

“Today?” Harold shifted his breakfast and tea to one hand and took the prepared course description and syllabus in the other. “But I haven't...”

“Is that a problem, Professor? I would assume, given your... extensive credentials in the field, that a one hour, entry level class would hardly be a hardship?”

Harold took a breath and forced a smile. “Of course.”

“I must admit, Professor, I'm still not sure why the administration denied our departmental recommendation and chose to bring you aboard instead.” Kraus gave an unctuous smile. “Welcome, by the way. I understand you taught remedial math this summer?”

“That's right,” Harold said, willing his shoulders down. He scanned the unfamiliar course description in his hand.

“Yes, well, I don't know how the Continuing Education department runs, but here, we strive for a higher standard.”

Harold smirked, then, ever aware of his cover identity, slowly extended the expression into something passing for a smile. “I understand.”

“Well, I don't want to hold you up. I can see you're already running late.”

Harold kept the crooked smile in place as Kraus made his leave. _Computer mix-up indeed._

Back in his office, he gave Bear the entire burrito while he hurriedly prepped for the new class. He logged on to the department website and printed out the student roster. With a few more clicks he pulled up the course files and sent those to the printer as well. When he moved his cursor across the screen to close out the page the arrow icon abruptly changed, indicating a hyperlink in the blank page corner. Harold clicked.

 

 

> **Additional Reading**
> 
> Drew, S. F.
> 
> Flint, M.E.
> 
> Rhodes, I.K.

Ctrl+W. He jammed the browser closed.

 

Hismorning classes went on without incident. He and Bear shared a quick lunch back in the office. At 11:27 a.m. his day took a sharp left turn. A dissertation. A calendar alert with a familiar address: 1182 Sullivan Street, a community center near campus. Harold deleted the notification. He could not, however, ignore the phone the next time it chimed.

 _Are you all right? Are you safe? Can we please talk?_   “Detective Riley?”

“Meet me in the park in thirty minutes.”

 _No, no, no!_   “I'm at work.”

There was a slight pause on the line. “Bring Bear with you.”

A half hour later, the day's left turn took a steep plunge downward. John confirmed what Harold already knew, the Machine was reaching out. Not content with Harold's inaction, the Machine had gone around him and contacted John directly.

John and Sameen.

Then, the next day, perhaps to hammer home its point, the Machine sent Ms. Groves.

Every life matters.

How much of that had been Ms. Groves and how much the Machine, he wondered as he sat in his office alone, staring at the phone. Given his problematic knowledge of Ms. Groves, he was inclined to argue that it was the Machine turning his own words back on themselves. Either way, Harold recognized his role on the playing board.

He dialed the number from memory.

“Detective Fusco, I wonder if you could help me with a small matter?” Harold smiled at the less than warm greeting from the other end. “It's good to talk to you again, too. Listen, do you know where I might find our mutual friend right now?”

Ali Hassan's shop. And John had brought Detective Fusco in on the number in addition to Ms. Shaw.

Every life matters, but some lives mattered more than others.

Maybe, he thought as he hailed a cab for the Bronx, if he could help save _those_ lives, the rest would fall into place?

 

◦ ◦ ◦

 

“I would have called,” John Reese said, pushing up from Harold's stoop, “but you didn't give me your new number.”

“Working a new schedule, Detective?” Bear was at John's side now, pulling the leash taut, and there was no way to side-step the two of them without at least a few words.

“Got a promotion.”

“Oh?”

“Thought... maybe you could help me celebrate?”

Harold put his head down and climbed the steps, handing off Bear's leash as he passed.

“Dinner. That's all,” John said quickly.

“What are you doing, John?”

“Asking you to have dinner with me.”

“I can't do this again.”

“You don't have to protect me, Finch. I knew about the danger when I took the job, remember?”

“But the job is impossible, John. This will get you killed.”

“Like it did Ingram?”

“Yes!”

John dropped his eyes. “I'm not him, Finch. And I'm not Grace. One day I _will_ end up on the wrong end of something really bad, but it will be because I put myself there. Eyes wide open.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

“You won't have to ask.”

“And when I lose you too?”

“If you run away again we both lose, so what's the difference?”

“You'll still be alive.”

“I'm alive now, Finch. We both are. And I'm hungry. So, dinner?”

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Tell me what you thought in the comments section. Want more? Click the link below for "Keep it All the Year", a Christmas themed side story to this, set mid season 4. Want even more POI fic, recs, and gifs - follow me on tumblr at superjinkyo.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Keep it All the Year ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539394) by [JinkyO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO)




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